


Brave, Gentle, and Strong

by a_time_for_wolves



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative season 8, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, Canonical Character Death, Cousin Incest, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Dany, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Healing, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, I love Jon and Sansa equally, I took that last tag from thimbleful because it speaks to me and I too will die on that hill, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jon Snow Has PTSD, Jon is hard on himself, Jon never loved Dany, Mentions of Death and Violence, Mentions of past abuse, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Political Jon Snow, Post-Canon, Romance, Sansa realizes she is angry and struggles with how to deal with it, Slow Burn, and I want to fix it DAMMIT, and Jon still struggles with letting Sansa take the leadership role, and he slowly learns to let go of his power and give it to Sansa, and no one thinks this is character bashing because it absolutely is NOT, and that means they will probably say and do things we might not like, and they deserve better than what this damn show did to either of them, basically trying to cover my bases here with these tags, because they live in a feudal and patriarchal society, but I try to keep them both in character, but he realizes how smart she is and he believes she is a better leader than he is, but it takes a while for Jon and Sansa to admit their feelings to each other, but when they realize they've made a mistake they try to fix it, don't worry Jon and Sansa live, i have built a quaint little cottage on the pol!jon hill and i will grow old there, jon x sansa - Freeform, not Dany friendly, picks up after season 8 episode 5, so that there are no surprises, the major character death warning is that Dany dies and it's talked about, the mutual pining is HEAVY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2020-08-13 01:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20165998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_time_for_wolves/pseuds/a_time_for_wolves
Summary: Jon and Arya return to Winterfell proceeding the sack of King's Landing to help rebuild their childhood home and a fallen Westeros. But will Jon and Sansa be able to rebuild their trust in one another and finally reveal their deepest, darkest secrets, or will those secrets tear them apart forever?





	1. A Raven, Sansa I

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa receives a raven from the remains of King's Landing after its destruction that Jon and Arya are returning home to Winterfell. Alternate Season 8 ending.
> 
> A Jonsa fix-it fic. Post Season 8, excluding episode 6. This fic takes place after the events of s08xe05 and the first chapter was written before the airing of the season finale, and it was written in a rush. I promise the following chapters are/will be better and not at all rushed. I've spent the last few months writing and editing the next three chapters and the second chapter will be published very soon. This is my first time publishing fan fiction so go easy on me, please. I had meant to write a little blurb after watching episode five, but then it sort of took a life of its own and is now intended to be a multi-chapter fic.
> 
> Feel free to find me over on [Tumblr](https://a-time-for-wolvess.tumblr.com) and say hello!

When the raven arrived with word from Jon, Sansa’s heart stopped. He was alive. And so was Arya. Cersei was dead. The dragon queen burned the city to the ground and massacred countless innocents. The queen of the ashes’ new reign had not lasted very long. Sansa took no joy in the death of innocent people, even the people of King’s Landing. But she couldn’t help but feel vindicated, knowing she was right about Daenerys Targaryen. But that didn’t matter to her now. Jon and Arya were coming home at last. 

The message was short and to the point. It hadn’t contained much more information than Bran had given her, but it was enough just to see Jon’s handwriting. It surprised her that he had even sent the raven amidst what she suspected to be a chaotic and deadly scene, but she was grateful nonetheless. The details didn’t matter now that she knew Jon would be coming back. That Arya was alive. That the last of the Starks, the pack, had survived. 

Clutching the scroll in her hand, Sansa marched to the door of her bedchamber, and left the room once occupied by her mother and father in search of Bran. She walked through the halls and bobbed her head into each room. Perhaps he was outside under the Godswood tree where he spent the majority of his time. But before she made her journey out into the cold, she found him sitting in his chair by the fire behind the high table, watching the flames dance.

“They are coming home,” he spoke, without turning to face her, still staring into the fire.

Sansa thought she would never get over the way Bran had changed. His emotionless trance never betraying his thoughts. She knew he wasn’t Bran anymore and the man she saw before her was not the little brother she left at Winterfell when she journeyed south with Arya and father to King’s Landing so long ago. A lifetime ago, she thought. She had resigned herself to try to accept Bran as he was now, yet it wasn’t easy. The fact that he knew things about her, about everyone and everything, scared her even now. Did he know her true feelings for Jon? Had he noticed how sudden and overwhelmingly the relief washed over her when Bran had spoken of who Jon really was: the true heir to the Iron Throne? A Targaryen, as well as a Stark. Not her brother, or even her bastard, half-brother, but her cousin. It nearly all vanished, all of the shame that she had harbored for so long. The shame of loving Jon, wanting to rule with him by her side as a partner and a lover. The weight of that shame began to ease off of her back. Loving your cousin wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t unheard of, or nearly as taboo as loving your brother. It was accepted to marry cousins. This realization sparked a flame of new hope in her heart that would not stop burning.

But along with that burning hope, another heat had begun to rise within her. As she learned of who Jon really was, and as she realized that it would allow for them to be together, anger boiled anew. One obstacle had vanished, and another had stood in its place. There was still the issue of Jon loving another. And that woman had wanted to keep the truth hidden. She had stood in Jon’s way of becoming who he was meant to be. Sansa would never have made that choice for him. She wanted to see him succeed and grow and not hide who he was. Sansa would never have made Jon so small. Maybe as children, but they weren’t children anymore and she had more faith in Jon than anyone. But did that matter now with the queen’s death? Even with Daenerys out of the picture, would she still stand between them? 

Jon might never return her affections for him, but at least she no longer felt the disgust at herself for harboring those desires. She would keep those feelings to herself and hope that Bran never spoke of them, if in fact he did know they existed. 

“Yes, they are coming home.” Sansa walked to where Bran sat and handed him the scroll. He glanced at it and then offered it back to her, as if he had already seen it, even though she broke the seal herself. He returned his attention to the flames as she took back the scroll, running her fingers over the ink and direwolf seal.

“You love him.” Bran’s words shook her and stopped her heart for a second before it began to rapidly pound. Her stomach lurched, her throat suddenly dry. She swallowed.

“Bran, I-“

“And he loves you.” Bran spoke into the flames, “I’ve seen it.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say or do. Did she even hear him correctly? He was speaking in that strange Bran language that seemed vague and yet so straightforward all at the same time. What did he even mean by saying that he had seen it? Was there a moment when her walls fell down in front of him? If he knew, did Jon as well? Had everyone around her seen it? Or was this something Bran saw in a vision? It had to be the latter. She recalled the time she spoke with Bran in the Godswood about the vision he had of her wedding night to Ramsey. That memory made her shudder. It made her feel ill. It made her want to run away and hide, just like she did that day leaving Bran sitting under the tree in the snow. But she wouldn’t walk away today. Her mind was racing and her heart was beating so hard it nearly choked her. Her hands suddenly frozen and sweaty at the same time. She wished she had her black leather gloves on.

“I don’t understand,” she finally choked out. He looked at her then with his blank stare and knowing eyes. Sansa stepped closer to Bran, bridging the distance between them, “Do you mean the fragments of visions you have? Did you have a vision of Jon… Or of me?”

“I see everything now, Sansa.” 

That stopped her cold. He knew the truth. A chill rippled across her back and neck. Fear began to creep through her veins. She couldn’t help but feel shame for the feelings she had let bloom in her heart for Jon. She knew better. Even before, when she believed him to be her brother, she knew it was wrong, and she had even convinced herself that those overwhelming feelings, that all of the tension and frustration, was not romantic. She fought to keep her feelings at bay. She told herself that what she felt was nothing more than admiration and respect. It wasn’t until he brought the dragon queen home with him and she saw the way they looked at each other. She saw the smiles and the touches. She saw his eyes light upon her white hair, her green eyes, and her small frame. Sansa had seen the way he rode her dragon. She could clearly see that he worshipped her. And the bitter, twisted knot that grew in her gut was proof enough that her affections had grown from a small seed of safety and familiarity to a suffocating ivy of desire and jealousy. And of pain.

“I don’t know what to say,” Sansa rasped.

“There is nothing to say. You love him. And he loves you,” Bran said flatly, returning his gaze once again to the fire, face unchanging, “Your secret is safe with me.”

Sansa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding in. Relief swam over her. And gratitude. She wanted to reach out and embrace him, but thought better of it.

“Thank you, Bran.” He did not respond, even as she stood there waiting, for what, she didn’t know. And so she turned to leave, nearly reaching the threshold of the door before stopping and turning her head around to face Bran again.

“They should be home within a fortnight,” Sansa spoke quietly. “I will begin preparations for their arrival.”

“They will be happy to be home.”

And with that she walked away from Bran and headed back to her bedchambers, willing herself to put that conversation behind her forever. She wanted to believe that Bran was right and that Jon did love her more than the love a brother has for his sister. But all she could think of was how he looked at Daenerys. Of how he followed her into battle and sacrificed his men, and his reputation, for that tyrant. Sansa wanted to believe that if Jon had truly known and not been blinded by his own desire and lust and maybe even love for the dragon queen, he may not have followed her to King’s Landing and into a massacre. Jon would never have willingly chosen to participate in genocide.

But the thought nagged at her, had he been acting out of fear rather than blind allegiance and love? He had not been forthright with Sansa when she asked him the real reason why he bent the knee to that pretty Targaryen queen. It felt as though he was hiding something from her, and that had stung her. It was Jon who told her once that they needed to trust each other, yet there he stood in front of her guarding the truth of his feelings for his new queen. Sansa thought of all the times Jon had pledged his allegiance to his new lover.

“You are my queen. What you command, we will obey,” he had declared seconds after silently scolding Sansa with his eyes. He spoke not only for himself, but for his family, and even The North. At the time she thought he was making a point to his sisters, especially to Sansa. A warning to fall in line with him and his new queen. It had angered and confused her to see him lower himself and his authority for her.

He had changed since returning home. He seemed not to have a will of his own. She constantly wondered what had happened to his stubbornness and his love and loyalty to The North, and to his family. In those moments when he chose this woman over them, over her, Sansa felt another stab of betrayal. 

But now… After all that had unfolded since he left. Maybe it had not been love and devotion for Daenerys that made him act as a subordinate. It did seem possible now that instead of love, he was led by fear. And as such, he was protecting her from the wrath and the fire of the dragon queen. She had been so blinded by her jealousy before that she hadn’t allowed herself to consider that Jon was merely placing himself in the line of fire to protect them.

She knew better than to let herself be so fooled by others’ motives and actions. She had learned to see the things that went unseen and undone and unsaid. Reading between the lines was one of the many lessons Lord Baelish had taught her. She had promised him she would never forget them, mere seconds before Arya ended him and his schemes forever. It seemed she may have broken that promise. And it was because of her feelings for Jon. After all that she had been through, she was proving herself to still be just a lovesick little girl. Jon had done that to her. His gentleness broke down her walls. And it terrified her. It left her vulnerable and weak.

The feel of an icy breeze on her cheek broke her out of her reverie. As did the sounds of swords clanking. Sansa realized that she hadn’t even noticed that her feet brought her standing outside staring at the gates. The clashing of blades made her look down to find Brienne and Podrick sparring. She’d been meaning to speak with Brienne about Jaime after his sudden departure, but each time she tried it felt wrong. Sansa couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible. After all, it was Sansa who told Jaime that she wished she could have been there to see Cersei die. And then when Brienne told her Jaime had returned to King’s Landing, she had the look of a woman who had spent the night weeping, a look she never thought she would see on the face of her newly Knighted protector. Sansa hadn’t known what to say to Brienne, other than to say she was sorry. Brienne changed the subject. It seemed as though she would have rather not spoken of it, and Sansa could understand why. She wouldn’t press the issue, but she could see the change in Brienne. She saw the darkness that had been cast under her eyes. She noticed the increased aggression in her sparring with Podrick. And she could see the wall that had previously been beginning to slowly fade after the battle of the Dead, reappear in his absence. It was almost as visible as the armor she wore. Those shields that protect our hearts. How could Sansa not relate to being left behind?

Sansa’s own armor was cracking. And because of that she could not let herself begin to hope. She had to put what Bran had said out of her mind. She had to stop staring at those gates, willing them to open wide like the strong arms she constantly imagined wrapping around her. Sansa took a deep breath, one last look at the gates, and resigned to lose herself in work and preparations. 

~

It had been eleven nights since the raven first arrived with news from Jon, and two nights since the second. They were set to arrive the next morning. Sansa had spent her days continuing to draw up plans for the long winter. Making sure her people would be fed and looked after over the next few months. She spent much of her time meeting with the Lords of Winterfell and securing her position as Wardeness, at least in the meantime. She waited to speak with Jon before making plans for the future. She needed to know what he had decided. Knowing that he and Arya and Ser Davos were returning home, at least for the time being, did give her hope that they would stay indefinitely. And that he would be reinstated as King in the North. That was all she allowed herself to hope for. 

She supped with Brienne and Podrick nearly every night, and sometimes with Bran, although she avoided his gaze, trying desperately to run away from his words. She couldn’t face the truth of her secret no longer belonging only to her. Looking into Bran’s eyes reminded her of that. Sansa hoped that in time her feelings for Jon would fade, but she had been hoping for that for so very long and yet her affection only grew stronger. Nothing tamed it. Her work was a welcome distraction, and time spent bent over her sewing and needlework eased her restlessness. But it never fully numbed her pain.

She had been embroidering a direwolf on the bodice of a new grey velvet dress she had made. The direwolf’s fur was white and his eyes red, just like Ghost’s. The Weirwood leaves crept out from behind him, perfectly matching his eyes. And as she stitched the white fur of Jon’s wolf she silently prayed to the gods for protection and peace. She hadn’t prayed to the gods much since leaving Winterfell that very first time, but lately she had found comfort again in her incantations. 

She was focused on a particularly detailed stitching of the wolf’s red eye when a horn blew from outside. She immediately tossed the dress aside, abandoning her needlework. Rushing to her chamber door, she swung it open, not even bothering to close it behind her. Sansa made her way swiftly through the halls and out onto the balcony overlooking the snow covered road. It was nearly dark and puffs of snow were softly hovering in the air. The blue grey twilight stilled as she peered over the blanket of white outside the castle walls. Three riders led a group of Northern fighters. She wasn’t expecting them to arrive until the next day, yet there they were, riding toward her. Toward home.


	2. Homecoming, Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya return home to Winterfell from King's Landing. A surprise guest returns with them.

“Open the gaaaaaaates!” a voice boomed from outside as Sansa marched briskly into the fading wintery light, her cloak billowing behind her.

The gates were being pulled open quickly by two guardsmen. Everyone else was a flurry of frantic activity, immediately preparing for the early arrival. Bran was already sat in his chair outside, waiting for them. He must have known. Sansa would have appreciated it if he had told her so that they could begin preparations earlier, but that didn’t matter now. 

On her way to stand beside him, she was greeted by Brienne and Podrick and they fell in line behind her. They all stood, watched, and waited. She could see that all of them, the frighteningly few remaining Northmen included, looked weary and exhausted. They must have rode hard and through at least one or more nights to get home sooner. Normally it would take three to four weeks from King’s Landing to Winterfell, not including a hard winter, but they made it back in nearly half the time. It pained Sansa to see them looking so weathered and beaten, but she could not contain the feeling of fire in her gut at the sight of them. 

At the sight of _him_.

His black hair was pulled back into a bun and the cloak Sansa had made for him hung over his shoulders. Exhaustion cast dark shadows beneath his weary eyes. Arya looked worse than Sansa had ever seen her, even worse than after the battle of the Dead. One of her eyes was yellowish purple, and even in the rapidly descending light she could see that scabbing scratches littered her face. A heaviness hung on them all, bearing fresh scars, both visible and unseen.

As they breached the gate and ended their long journey home, each of them dismounted their horses. Jon seemed the most eager to be off of his. With a tired smile he approached, followed by Arya, and lowered himself to embrace Bran briefly. As he broke away from Bran his eyes raised to Sansa, and they seemed to lighten upon her. He gave her a small but genuine smile, and at last opened his arms to her, sliding them beneath her cloak and bringing her into him. She embraced him tightly, relishing in the feeling of his warmth and tenderness. She had imagined this moment countless times since she last saw him, but the remembrance of his embrace paled in comparison to the way his arms felt wrapped around her. He held her waist close to his own for what seemed like hours and seconds all at once. Delicious needles tingled at the small of her back where his hand gently grasped her. 

The moment was reminiscent of Jon’s long awaited return from Dragonstone, but without the ache in her chest at the sight of Daenerys and her dragons and her armies. In this moment, Sansa was filled with gratitude at Jon’s singleness. There was no one new for him to introduce. No one for her to be forced to act graciously with. No one to envy or hate. The relief made her clutch Jon tighter to her.

Releasing his grip on her slowly, he brought his hands out from beneath her cloak to gently cradle her head between them. He kissed her warmly on her forehead. The delicious softness of his lips on her skin made Sansa’s heart beat wildly and she feared he would see the way his touch made her feel. 

The look in his eyes as he gazed upon her, breaking away from the kiss, was pained, but also relieved. And it seemed maybe even guilty. That confused her. She couldn’t place the look in his eyes and reconcile what it meant for her. There indeed was much to be discussed. For another time. 

Be patient, she thought.

“Welcome home,” Sansa breathed, barely loud enough for him to hear. She cleared her throat, “You must be exhausted and starved. We hadn’t expected you until the morning.”

“Jon was very eager to get back home,” Arya interjected, her eyes slightly rolled in his direction. “Now we’re here. I am starved and I want to sleep.”

Jon chuckled softly, “Aye, we’re very tired, but happy to be home.”

Arya moved to embrace her little brother briefly, and then also Sansa. The scratches on her face looked even worse up close, and Sansa could see a faded bruise on her lip as well. She wondered what Arya had seen and survived. It troubled her deeply to think of what Arya endured in King’s Landing. It must have been a nightmare. But if anyone could survive, it was her warrior sister. Sansa held her close, thankful to see her safe and home. 

Arya released herself from the embrace, raised an eyebrow at Sansa and with heavy, blinking lids released a sigh.

“We’ll talk when I wake.” Arya was speaking to Sansa, yet her eyes moved from Sansa to Jon and back again, “Goodnight.” And with that she disappeared silent and swift from the courtyard toward the kitchens.

Jon gave Sansa an awkward smile and lowered his eyes. It seemed they had quite a bit to discuss, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to hear what he had to say, but she would try not to press him tonight. Just having them home gave her comfort and reassurance. And even though it felt as though she had been waiting years for it, she could wait a few hours longer for everything that had been left unsaid. 

Be patient, Sansa reminded herself. 

Jon looked toward Ser Davos, his men, and the crowd that was gathered around them. He seemed to look everywhere but at Sansa. She was suddenly fearful again that Jon was angry with her. She had known that telling Tyrion the secret of Jon’s parentage was betraying his confidence. It was a choice she had agonized over. She feared that Jon would never forgive her for betraying him if she broke his trust. But in the end she realized that she would rather he lose his trust in her and live than be forever lost to death, or to subservience. 

Sansa watched as Jon’s eyes passed over his men, still avoiding her gaze. She nearly called out to him, but before she had the chance to speak his name, she noticed something strange. His eyes shifted back and forth between the crowd and someone directly behind Sansa. At first she thought he was looking at her, which made her gut ache with dread at what may occur next. The slight smirk that broke on Jon’s face seemed odd and it confused her. 

Sansa heard a gasp, barely above a whisper, and she turned her body around to where the sound had come from. It was Brienne who had let out the strangled sigh. Her face was twisted in what looked to be confusion and disbelief. Unshed tears threatened to spill down Brienne’s face. Sansa turned to the sight that had so captivated all of Brienne’s attention. There before them emerged a figure shielded by a black cloak and as it walked slowly toward Brienne’s slightly shaking body, a hand emerged from beneath the dark and billowing material and removed the hood. Jaime Lannister stood before them, his eyes never leaving Brienne’s.

It was Sansa’s turn to gasp. She stood there, mouth agape, watching Brienne and Jaime regard one another in silence. Everyone watched. The few who knew of their secret affair watched in wonder. The rest surveyed the scene in curiosity of what had elicited so much attention. 

“I would like to go inside,” Bran broke the awkward silence.

All but Jaime and Brienne looked at him, and then at each other. Jon turned to push Bran’s chair and Sansa reluctantly fell into step beside him. 

Everyone dispersed as Sansa, Jon, and Bran began to leave the courtyard and make their way inside. Sansa looked back at Brienne and Jaime. They were still standing at least five feet apart, staring into each other’s eyes. Brienne looked both angry and relieved. Jaime’s eyes were full of hope and fear. Sansa couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy, knowing that they would most likely work out their grievances and find happiness with each other. They’d make a life together somehow. And even though that was what Sansa wanted for Brienne, to be happy and loved, she couldn’t deny the jealously that struck the pit of her stomach at the thought of her own desires being left unfulfilled.

Sansa called out to Podrick, who had been smiling somewhat foolishly at the couple in front of him. His attention turned toward Sansa and she gestured to Davos who was already making his way to speak with Podrick. He bowed softly toward Sansa and then turned to warmly welcomed Davos home. 

Sansa would make sure she paid Davos a visit sometime soon to give him her thanks for his loyalty to Jon. 

Davos had proven at times that he could be quite a good advisor, and defender. His temperament complimented Jon’s well and she was thankful that Jon had him to speak up for Jon when his humility kept him quiet. But Sansa never forgot how swiftly a man’s allegiance could switch when the opportunity arose. Davos’ loyalties seemed to switch often, and she had a mind to politely remind him that she would never forget.

“Jon, I’d like to be alone.” 

Bran had spoken so soft and quiet that Jon had to dip his head down closer to Bran to hear him. As he turned his ear closer to Bran, Jon’s face tilted up at Sansa, eyes squinting at her. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a slight shrug in response. 

“Aren’t you hungry, Bran?” Jon asked him. 

“No.”

“Alright,” Jon shrugged. He carefully pushed Bran’s chair in the direction of an empty room near the Great Hall with a burning fire. Sansa led him to it, knowing that this was where Bran would want to be alone. It was a room that Bran would retreat to when the castle’s walls filled with people at night and it was too cold for him to ruminate in the Godswood.

Sansa couldn’t help but feel even more uncomfortable around Bran now that Jon was home. It stung her to feel so disconnected from her little brother. She was beginning to realize that her fear these last several weeks had gotten in the way of her getting to know Bran as the man he was now. ‘The three-eyed raven,’ as he had once called himself to her. Though she knew that Bran would keep his word, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread at the thought of Jon finding out her true feelings for him, especially from someone other than herself. 

She dropped behind the two men and watched as Jon spoke softly to Bran, situating him close to the hearth. He bent down so as to look him in the eye, and as Jon spoke, Sansa couldn’t help but gaze at his tender smile and his dark eyes catching the light of the fire that blazed and crackled next to Bran. Jon drew in his breath, deep and long, and released a sigh so full of relief that he trembled with the exhalation. Bran smiled knowingly at him.

Suddenly it became obvious to Sansa that Jon had not had the opportunity to spend very much time with Bran since their first reunion. The thought of it made her chest ache. There seemed to be so many moments between the last of the Starks that were stolen from them. A wave of anger and bitterness swept over Sansa, thinking of how the Dragon Queen had taken so much more from them than they likely would ever know. 

She couldn’t help but feel anger at Jon as well. He had been a fool to trust Daenerys. She told Sansa that it was Jon who had manipulated her, who had convinced her to fight “his” war. That revelation had made Sansa hope again that Jon had indeed been manipulating this woman and that he had a plan to use her for her weapons and armies. She began to hope that he was playing the part of a lovesick fool to distract Daenerys from his true motives. She hoped that he was keeping the truth to himself to protect the lie. It would explain why he wouldn’t answer Sansa’s pointed questions. 

But Sansa had lost that hope in the following months. His actions seemed to prove otherwise. And so she again believed that Jon was just as much a fool in love as she had feared.

Jon rose from his kneeling position, his cloak rising with him where it had pooled around his feet on the stone floor. He kissed his little brother on the forehead, drawing out the embrace before turning away from Bran. He walked toward Sansa who had been leaning against the frame of the large open doors as she watched them. Jon’s eyes were fixed upon his moving feet as he stalked toward the door. Sansa could not be certain whether Jon had felt the same bittersweet sadness that the two men’s exchange had made her feel. But she thought she saw it there in his heavy eyes.

Once Jon crossed the threshold of the door, Bran turned and gazed at Sansa, face blank and observant. A chill ran down her spine. She breathed deeply, mustering the courage to nod faintly at Bran and turn away from his knowing eyes. Sansa was relieved to see that Jon’s back was to them and he hadn’t noticed the exchange. He stood waiting for her to catch up to him and when she did they began walking back toward the Great Hall where people were starting to gather for supper. 

Podrick and Ser Davos sat together drinking ale and speaking amongst themselves. Brienne and Jaime were not with them, as she expected. She assumed their desire to be alone superseded any other need.

Arya was also nowhere to be found, as expected. She must have gone through the kitchens to help herself to some food before heading to her own chambers. Sansa imagined Arya sneaking through so quiet that no one noticed her at all, hands stealthily grabbing a loaf of bread. 

Like Bran, Arya preferred to be alone most of the time and Sansa presumed that after such a long and hard journey the last thing she wanted was to be around people. Sansa smiled to herself thinking of Arya, feeling gratitude that she was back home and safe. She had grown to not be offended by Arya’s solitude and silence. 

It took quite a while for the two sisters to get to know each other again, as the people they had become. And in truth, they were still getting to know one another. But their time together before Jon had returned home with the Dragon Queen and her armies and fire breathing weapons had created a bond between the two sisters. They learned to trust one another. They both had the same goal: to protect and defend their family. Trust was essential if they were going to achieve that goal. That bond made their previous misunderstandings and animosities toward one other dissipate. And in its place grew a mutual respect and deep loyalty. 

It was hard for Sansa to trust anyone, and she believed it was just as difficult for Arya, possibly more so. But she now knew she could confide in Arya and she never feared speaking the truth around her. Sansa was grateful to have her sister back home, even if she was mostly just lurking around, or sparring with Brienne.

The sounds of people moving about, chairs and benches scraping the floor and being sat upon, cups clashing and voices raising made Sansa feel comforted and hopeful. She looked at Jon then, who was already gazing at her. It made her heart stop, realizing he was watching her, even if just for a few seconds. His eyes looked heady and dark. He was never more handsome than when he looked at her like that. Desire bloomed heavy and fast within her, so hot she felt it in her fingertips. It made her look away.

“You must be hungry,” Sansa said quickly, gesturing to the high table with her chin in hopes that Jon would look away from her and not notice the blush that had invaded her cheeks.

“Actually, I’m too exhausted to eat,” Jon blinked slowly and breathed deeply, not looking away. “I think I should retire before I pass out. If I sit down now I’ll need to tear Ser Brienne away from Ser Jaime to carry me to my bed.” One side of Jon’s mouth turned up into a sideways smile.

Sansa smirked and rolled her eyes at his poor attempt at a joke. It was good to see him smile like that, a bit childlike and mischievous. She hoped to see him smile and laugh more often. He was always so intense and serious, as was she. But they both could make each other laugh just as much as they could annoy each other. It acted as a soothing balm whenever the fire of their quarrels burned them.

“I’m not really hungry either,” Sansa admitted. “I should probably retire as well.”

They walked side by side through the doors of the Hall and into the corridors that lead to various parts of the castle. It was not a short walk from the Great Hall to the living quarters, and even though their journey was punctuated by silence and awkward glances between them, it seemed that when they both reached the door of Sansa’s chamber, time was already slipping by so quickly. 

There were many things that Sansa had wanted to say to Jon upon his return, but none of those things came to mind at that moment. Having him near, and knowing what she might have known now, all she could do was watch Jon and try to read him. He gave nearly nothing away and that made her doubt even more. It caused her to begin to lose hope that what Bran had said was the truth. 

Other than their embrace and the brief moment in the Great Hall, Jon had seemed a bit preoccupied and distracted since they arrived home. She couldn’t even imagine what was going through his mind. She knew that she had to be patient and give him time to rest and gather his thoughts and feelings before they spoke, but Sansa wanted to comfort him. She wanted to tell him that the worst was over, that they had survived. But she knew that she couldn’t promise him such idealistic things. 

It was the romantic in her that took over in those moments when she was around Jon. It had frightened her whenever she felt that romanticism and idealism begin to creep up in her, knowing that it had nearly destroyed her time and time again.

They reached Sansa’s door first and stood there for a moment, both looking down at the stone floor, until they each looked up and began to speak at the same time. Jon chuckled and that made her smile. 

“You go ahead,” Jon said softly and tiredly, still smiling.

“I was about to say that I’d have supper sent to your room, if you wanted.”

“No, it’s alright,” Jon sighed. “My stomach can wait until the morning.”

Sansa nodded. “In that case, I hope you sleep well.”

“Thank you, Sansa.” Jon smiled weakly once again at her, “Goodnight.”

Sansa’s heart began to pound in panic. Something about saying goodnight so quickly after they arrived made her feel empty and wanting. She grabbed Jon’s arm as he turned to go and brought him back to face her again. She stared into his weary, dark eyes. 

“Can you ever forgive me, Jon?”

Jon’s brow furrowed slightly and he looked down for a moment. Sansa thought that maybe this was exactly why he had been acting a little distant. He was angry with her. He felt betrayed. He wasn’t ready to trust her again and it made her more scared than she had been since he left for King’s Landing. She risked losing his trust by telling Tyrion what she knew. She risked so much and now it seemed she may never earn his trust back. 

Jon raised his eyes to meet hers and they were filled with sadness and maybe a little bit of annoyance.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

Sansa wasn’t satisfied by this. She knew that was what he said every time he didn’t want to address an issue, “Jon, I-“

“Sansa,” Jon interrupted her. “There’s much to say, and we will say it all, I promise you.” He paused, then sighed heavily, looking everywhere but in her eyes that were welling with tears. 

Sansa didn’t know what to say. It felt as though asking for forgiveness struck a nerve and he wanted to be anywhere but in her presence. Yes, he must have been exhausted, but it was more than that. He must have wanted nothing more than to sleep, and she wouldn’t keep him from what he wanted, but Sansa couldn’t help but fear that she had already done that: kept him from what, or who, he wanted. 

She didn’t know anymore. Her head was swimming and her emotions were getting the better of her. She searched for his eyes as they avoided her own.

“I’m happy you’re home,” she sighed. And finally he raised his eyes to meet hers.

“Thank you, Sansa.”

Jon took a deep breath and nodded once. When he turned to leave again, Sansa let him go this time. She watched as he walked down the long hall and turned the corner, toward his bedchamber. When he disappeared, her heart felt heavier than stone. 

Having him back home made her feel safe, and made home real again. Jon was the first person who had made her feel safe and home and warm after all of those years alone and lonely and broken and abused. She had for so long been nothing but a pawn in others’ games. And though she had learned to play some of those games to survive, she found no fulfillment or peace in any of them. All she ever felt was scared and lost, no matter how accustomed she grew to living in fear and hopelessness. 

When she escaped to Castle Black and she saw Jon again for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, her heart split open and hope began to fill it up again. For as much as she told him that he couldn’t protect her, that no one could protect her, she believed he was willing to die trying. And that made her feel safer than anything had since the day Joffrey cut off her father’s head and forced her to look at it on the stake. 

Besides Theon, Jon was the first man since then whose touch did not repulse or terrify her. He was the first man in years who made her feel worthy and loved. With Jon she could let some of her guard down. The walls she had built around her heart began to slowly crumble for him. And in its place she built a stronger wall. Stone by stone Sansa and Jon had built a home for each other. As they fought together for Winterfell and reclaimed it as theirs, they built another home that belonged only to them.

Winterfell was not the same without Jon there with her. Jon was her home. And now that they were together again, she felt immense relief. But the heaviness in her heart felt a lot like dread. 

She wondered if Jon would leave, go back to the Wall, or maybe even farther North. As much as she wanted to believe what Bran had told her, about Jon loving her, she couldn’t help but continue to doubt it.

A chill ran through her. Sansa finally opened her bedchamber door and closed it shut behind her. As she crossed the room toward her wooden framed bed covered in furs she saw the embroidery she had tossed to the side in haste. The direwolf’s white fur stood out in stark contrast to the dark grey velvet of her dress. The red eyes gleamed and sparkled from the light of the candles that burned all around. Those eyes seemed to mock her. She wanted to toss the dress into the fire. How foolish she had been. How stupid to think that Jon, her family, could ever love her more than a sister. She was just the silly little girl with silly little dreams that she had always been. Tears spilled down her cheeks and neck, making her skin itch with the wetness. How many times had she shed angry tears because of a man? She didn’t want to know. 

She refrained from tossing the dress into the fire and folded it up instead, covering the direwolf, and put it away in one of the chests where she kept her sewing supplies. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was to succumb to sleep and not wake up for a very long time.

She undressed, put on her night shift and robe, and began to extinguish all of the candles that had been burning. The wax from most of them had spilled over the edge of mantles and tables. Droplets of hot wax had formed on the stone floor in some places like stalactites in a cave. She sat at the edge of her bed as she untied her braids and studied the fire, trying not to think of Jon and his dark eyes and his sweet smile. She desperately prayed for dreamless sleep, but when her head rested on her pillow and she was wrapped up in her bed furs, all she could do was think of that sweet smile. 

Closing her eyes, she relived the way she caught him staring at her. The thought of it once again sent shivers down her spine and warmth spreading from her belly. It radiated to her fingertips and cheeks, and then into her hips, making them ache. She recalled the way he looked when he dismounted his horse and stalked toward her, causing her heart to speed up. 

Imagining these small moments, she could so clearly see his obsidian eyes burning into her, yet there was so much that she could not see or know hiding behind them. Sansa felt lost and scared and worried, afraid of being so close to the only thing that could make her happy, yet finding it just beyond her reach. All she could do was weep. 

After what felt like hours and with tears streaming down her temples and pooling into her ears and hair, the darkness finally, mercifully drifted her into sleep.


	3. A Dark Night of the Soul, Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon processes his feelings for Sansa, looks back on the sack of King's Landing, and struggles to come to terms with his new identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the poem by St. John of the Cross. There are also two lines taken from the song From the Grave by James Arthur (feel free to point them out if you notice them!).
> 
> Thank you all so much for your patience on this chapter! It was more difficult to write Jon than I had expected and there was a lot that I wanted to touch on, including Jon's struggle to come to terms with his identity which he had previously been robbed of the freedom and time to process. This is typical brooding, agonized Jon. 
> 
> I myself brooded over the chapter, but I hope that the result is worth the wait.
> 
> And lastly, thank you all SO MUCH for all the kudos and comments on my first fic! I honestly was not expecting anyone to read it, so the fact that you all have been commenting and reading really makes my Jonsa heart soar!

The flames that illuminated the corridor outside Sansa’s chambers flickered as Jon stormed past each torch. He hastened to his bedchambers in pursuit of solitude and a balm for his wounded ego. Humiliation and regret crept through his shoulders at the thought of his behavior toward Sansa. He was a silent, timorous fool. 

When she took hold of his arm and pulled him closer to her, the touch sent shivers through him. She stared deep into his eyes, beseechingly, as hope and fear flitted across her face. The scar on his chest burned and he withdrew from her pleading gaze to stare down at the stone floor beneath their feet, afraid that she would see the way her pain cut him deep.

She clasped her hands together and the movement caught his attention. Peering at them from beneath downcast eyes, he could see that the fingers of one hand dug into the flesh of the other. He wanted to reach out to them. He wanted to massage the crescent moon shaped imprints away. He wanted to take her into his arms and sweep away the tears that threatened to stain her cheeks. 

Instead, he interrupted her and spoke too brusquely, not out of anger, but out of dread and a sudden loss for words. The fear of rejection silenced and reduced him to grimacing sighs and clenched fists. His searching eyes spanned the entirety of the halls around them. Rather than giving her the comfort and reassurance she needed, he stretched the divide between them.

Sansa didn’t deserve his abrasiveness or the growing distance he created between them. She deserved apologies and explanations. She deserved the truth. 

Jon cursed under his breath as he replayed his foolishness in his mind. As soon as he reached his chambers he swung the door open, nearly slammed it behind him, and leaned against the rough wood of the door. Wincing, he screwed his eyes shut and tipped his head back as he recalled the fearful look on Sansa’s face just moments ago. Heat began to burn his cheeks at the thought of how awkwardly silent and curt he had been, as well as the ever-mounting pile of regret that haunted him.

“You idiot,” he muttered and let out a labored sigh as he removed his black leather gloves and tossed them onto a table near the hearth. He unfastened Longclaw, placed it a little too forcefully onto the table, then shrugged out of the fur cloak that Sansa made for him and hung it over one of the chairs. A fire had already been burning in the hearth and he was thankful to whoever it was that prepared it for him. He didn’t think he had it in him to do much else but collapse onto his bed. And after removing his leather jerkin and boots, he did just that, not even bothering to peel off his doublet, tunic, or breeches. 

But as he reclined in bed, his eyes closing with heaviness, all he could think of was Sansa and the relief he felt being home, being near her. Her radiance arrested his every thought. He called to mind the image of her waiting in the courtyard next to Bran as he rode through the gates. She stood tall and regal and impossibly resplendent, ever the consummate Lady. Jon thought of her icy blue eyes that glowed brightly in the dying evening light, the sharp set of her jaw, the elegant slope of her long neck. Not even the dim light could diminish the brilliance of her hair, a lustrous flame rippling in the wintry breeze. And then there were her lips. Her soft, pink lips.

Jon stifled a frustrated groan and rolled over onto the furs atop his bed. It was maddening and much too distracting to obsess over her strong and graceful beauty. It was also futile, as he could never be worthy of her. It would serve him better to push all thoughts of Sansa’s magnificence out of his mind before it consumed him completely. If his head would not let his body rest, he decided the time was better spent preparing for their inevitable conversation. She deserved to know the reason behind his distance, the meaning behind his evasiveness. And she needed to know the details of the sack of King’s Landing. 

Ironically, that was the part of the conversation he feared the least. He had plenty of time to mull over those disastrous events during the arduous journey home. He agonized over it. He brooded. He could scarcely get the images out of his mind. The blood that pooled and mixed with the ash. The dead and burnt bodies littering the streets. He could not unsee the children, the little babes, too many lifeless in their mothers’ arms. Some of them only ashes in the shape of bodies. 

It was gruesome. It was criminal. 

He would never forget what he saw or his foolish, unforgivable complicity. It had haunted him every day since. 

But the closer they came to Winterfell, the more his thoughts turned to Sansa. When Varys told him what she had done, breaking her promise of secrecy to him, he couldn’t help but let a small smile escape at the thought of Sansa’s stubbornness, though he feared for her safety. At the time he hadn’t known what the consequences of that betrayal of secrecy would be, or how Daenerys would react when she inevitably learned of it. What he did know was that it hadn’t felt much like a betrayal at all. It felt considerably more like love.

But what kind of love, he could not say. There were parts of her completely unknown to him. She fiercely guarded her heart. And who could blame her? Yet there were times when he felt something more, something stirring and intense that passed between them. He knew what _he_ felt in those moments, but they could not possibly be the same for her. He couldn’t let himself indulge in hopes that anyone else might find unconscionable, despite the fact that he had long since stopped deceiving himself.

In the beginning, he had tried desperately to convince himself that he had nothing but honorable feelings for Sansa. Seven hells, they grew up believing they shared a father! It was depraved, the way he imagined what her skin would feel like against his or when he wondered if her lips tasted as succulent as they looked. It caused him to consider that Melisandre may have brought him back to life as something darker, more animal than man. His gut would turn at the thought of their familial tether. And yet it still didn’t stop the seditious stirring in his loins whenever he thought of her hair, kissed by fire, mussing up against his pillow with his hands exploring the peaks and valleys of her skin and the heat between her thighs. 

And then the shame and guilt would devour him all over again. He’d fight harder to push any licentious thought of her out of his mind, and the cycle would begin again. A snake eating its tail. 

The day he left Winterfell in her stead to meet with Daenerys at Dragonstone was the day he finally gave up the fight with his treacherous heart. He knew the fight was futile the moment he nearly strangled Littlefinger to death. As soon as another man, especially a man such as Baelish, threatened to be the one to touch and taste her, to fill her with his seed and give her his children, Jon knew his heart was utterly and irrevocably hers. He could no longer deny it. 

The realization that he was leaving Winterfell for reasons other than proffering to potential allies shamed him into self-hatred. Hate for the hope that leaving her would make him forget. Hate for the wicked thoughts he could not banish from his mind. Hate for how he left Sansa alone with that scheming sycophant, vulnerable to further manipulation and abuse. And to ease the guilt he harbored for deserting her, he reminded himself that no one trusted Littlefinger less than she and as such was unlikely to fall prey to his machinations once again. 

On the days when his worries threatened to consume him, he would replay the conversation they had on the battlements after they buried their brother and returned the Stark banners to their rightful place.

_“You told me Lord Baelish sold you to the Boltons.”_

_“He did.”_

_“And you trust him?”_

_“Only a fool would trust Littlefinger,” she scoffed._

Jon had studied her face, abhorrence etched her features as she answered. She was no longer the naive and idealistic little girl he remembered. Gone were the days when she would sing the songs of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, of Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne. The heroes she dreamed of rescuing her never came. So she became the hero.

Her pain had made her a cynic, and her foes became her greatest lessons. 

Arya was right. Sansa was the smartest person he knew. She wielded the lessons given to her by the likes of Cersei and Baelish like a sword in battle, protecting and fighting for the North and for what little was left of their family. Even after she learned of his true parentage, she still fought for him. How could he not call that love? 

When she descended the battlefield with the Knights of the Vale and rescued him from a second death, was that not also love? She set aside the pain of what Littlefinger had done to her in favor of an army. She endured Littlefinger’s presence. She tolerated his advances and his schemes. And in thanks, Jon had left her there with everything she ever feared. He should have protected her. He should have tightened his grip on Littlefinger’s neck until his lifeless body slumped to the cold floor of the crypts. 

It was another failure that made him unworthy of her.

When Jon returned home from Dragonstone, and Baelish nowhere to be found, there hadn’t been time for apologies or explanations. With all the endless distractions, he never got the chance to broach the subject with Sansa. 

Instead, he asked Arya, who was more than willing to fill him in on the details during their long trek home.

_“He had been conspiring against us, trying to pit us against one another. He didn’t anticipate Bran’s gift of sight, or whatever it is Bran has a gift for. We planned to make it seem as though I was the one on trial, Sansa’s idea really. It was quite clever of her to deceive Littlefinger that way, making him believe for a few moments that he won. He hadn’t seen it coming. The look on his face when he realized,” Arya cackled, taking Jon by surprise as he hadn’t heard her laugh in such a way in so long, maybe ever._

_“Anyway, he begged Sansa for mercy. He even dropped to his knees, publicly professing his love for her,” she scoffed. “His desperation was repulsive. And that’s when I slashed his throat with the dagger he used as a prop to betray father,” she gathered the reins of her gelding in one hand and touched the hilt of the dagger at her waist with the other. It was the same Valyrian steel she used to kill the Night King as well. Jon briefly contemplated what else it had been used for._

_After hearing of this trial and execution, and the cavalier way that Arya spoke of it, Jon wondered if Sansa had felt as nonchalant about it as her sister seemed to have._

_“How did Sansa react to his profession of love to her?” Jon asked curiously._

_“Entirely indifferent.”_

_Jon smirked, making a satisfied noise at the back of his throat in response._

_“It’s not as if it was the first time she heard it,” Arya said._

_Jon scowled at her, “What do you mean?”_

_Arya looked pointedly at him. “He confessed his ‘love’ to her long before that, Jon. You must have known that.” she gave him a look of disbelief at his ignorance. “I think it was when he kissed her, at the Vale when-”_

_“What?! He KISSED her? When?!” Jon interrupted as he turned his body almost entirely to face Arya. Their horses nearly collided._

_Arya looked at him incredulously. “Well, if you would have let me finish,” she clicked her tongue in disapproval. “I believe it was when Sansa and Littlefinger escaped King’s Landing and fled to The Eyrie with Aunt Lysa. That kiss was what caused Aunt Lysa to threaten Sansa’s life, to which Littlefinger responded by shoving her through the Moon Door.”_

_Jon looked at Arya, horrified. “I thought Lysa took her own life.”_

_“Ha! No, she did not,” Arya scoffed. “That was just before The Hound and I arrived at The Eyrie. He brought me there to find refuge with Aunt Lysa only to learn of her death the moment we arrived. Sansa was gone by then, left with Littlefinger. And then he sold her to the Boltons.”_

Ramsay. The image of that sick bastard’s smug smile appeared before Jon, unbidden. Rage worked its way into his gut. He was so filled with wrath thinking of what his sadistic cruelty had done to Sansa, and how it had killed Rickon. Jon nearly beat Ramsay to death and would have, had it not been for the look in Sansa’s eyes when he caught a glimpse of her amidst the fury of his fists on Ramsay’s bloody, smiling face. Jon thought she was asking for some kind of lawful justice, a trial maybe, but what she was truly asking for was the right to Ramsay’s fate. He was her kill, he realized now. And how could he possibly blame her?

Ramsay and Baelish’s death sentences matched their specific brands of cruelty. Sansa fed Ramsay to his ravenous hounds, a death he no doubt dispensed upon many others. Baelish was outwitted, once and for all, and by the very person whom he taught his greatest lessons. Those monsters deserved every bit of justice they received, and more. 

Sansa was a force. She may have been a Lady, but she was every bit a wolf. Her fierceness residing not in her physical strength like Arya or Brienne, but in her intelligence, her intuition, and her understanding of how to play the game to protect those she loves. Her ingenuity inspired him. He thought of it every moment he was away from home when he trekked to Dragonstone. He’d see her face and hear her voice in every step. Her words an endless loop in his mind. 

_“You have to be smarter than father. You need to be smarter than Robb. I love them. I miss them. But they made stupid mistakes and they both lost their heads for it.”_

_“And how should I be smarter? By listening to you?” Jon retorted. He could see that it hurt her and immediately wished he could take it back._

_Sansa sighed, “Would that be so terrible?”_

He evaded the question, yet knowing she was right. Of course she had been. Even as she frustrated and infuriated him to no end, his respect and admiration for her grew every day since reuniting at Castle Black. No other could challenge Jon the way Sansa could. It was exasperating and exhilarating. Despite knowing that he was unworthy of it, he could not help but strive to be deserving of her. He desperately wanted to gain her trust and faith. Yet it felt as though whenever he had earned it, it would somehow slip from his grasp, and he’d struggle to hold tight to it. 

And why shouldn’t her trust elude him? Had he shared his plan with her sooner, things might have turned out differently. He could have listened to her and gained insight. The burden did not have to be his alone to carry, and yet he soldiered on, tormented by his secrets, fearing the truth of them would lead to ruin. How could he possibly expect Sansa’s unwavering trust when it was he who chose not to confide in her? She had every right to doubt him when he came home with Dany and her armies and dragons. 

_Gods, Dany._

Another wave of exhaustion hit him at the thought of Dany. He wanted to put her out of his mind tonight, and forever if he could only dare, but he owed Sansa an explanation.

When he had arrived at Winterfell with two armies, two dragons, and as much dragonglass as they could carry in tow, he knew Sansa would be vexed by his bending the knee, but he thought she would understand why he had done it. He foolishly assumed that Sansa was unaware of exactly how he had convinced Dany to fight for their cause: by letting her fall in love with him and pretending he loved her back. He thought Sansa understood that he was playing the game. 

It wasn’t until she asked him if he gave up his crown for the North or because of his love for Dany that he realized Sansa had also fallen for the ruse. He should have confessed it all to her then and there, and he almost did, had it not been for his fear that telling her might be too great a risk.

But now, all of the danger his secrets posed were behind them at last. Nothing but his shame and fear held him back from laying it all bare before her. 

He recalled the look in Sansa’s eyes as she pleaded for forgiveness just moments earlier. They glistened with unshed tears and his chest ached at the sight. When he told her there was nothing to forgive, he meant it. In everything, all she did was for the North and to protect the only family she has left. There was truly nothing she had done that warranted his forgiveness. 

He would pray to the nameless gods of the woods that she could forgive him for his duplicity and for not trusting her with the truth. Most of all, if he could summon the courage to confess his darkest secret, he’d pray to the old gods and the new that she would forgive him for the profoundly deep and shameful way he loved her.

Heavy darkness descended upon him as the image of his calloused fingers entangling in a sea of unbound copper waves coaxed him into a deep and dreamless slumber.

As he slept atop the blankets of furs, still dressed and sweating, Jon dreamt of fire and ash. The sounds of clanging steel and horrified screams reverberated in his ears, amplifying to a deafening degree. Dusty smoke billowed high as crumbling stone hurtled into the streets, consuming him in darkness and debris. Silence descended as sudden as a thunderclap and with it came a soft, grey light. Ash suspended in the air. White hair floated in the wind, slow and lazy like seaweed in water. Leather-clad arms struggled as if through mud and the flash of a blade shone quick and bright, blinding him. The only sound a piercing dragon’s shriek. 

He woke stiff and aching, his dirty clothes damp and sticking to his skin. Across the room, his fire still blazed. The frantic crackling of fresh wood erupted embers upon the hearth, indicating that another log had been added just moments before he opened his eyes. 

He glanced at the window shutters, wondering if it was night or just before dawn when it was often the darkest. He yawned as deep and soundless as a lazy wolf pup basking in the summer sun. The aroma of spices and onions permeated his chambers and he lifted his head to peer over the bed at the table near the fire. A steaming bowl of stew beside a large piece of torn bread awaited him. His mouth watered and his stomach growled furiously. Getting up from the bed was a struggle, and as soon as he stood, the urgency in his bladder demanded his attention. He retrieved the chamber pot from beneath his bed and made water. 

When he finished, he broke his fast on the stew and wolfed it down, soaking the bread in the broth between bites of beef, onion, and turnip. Sansa must have replenished some of the stores since he’d been gone. She was as prudent and diplomatic as ever; a superior ruler to him in many ways. Not only did her people love her, but she carefully considered all the minutiae that he often neglected, such as the importance of appetizing food. 

Using what remained of the bread, he wiped the bowl clean and devoured the last of his meal. Gage, Winterfell’s cook, certainly had a deft hand with spices. Jon licked his fingers clean and hummed in approval, wondering when he had last tasted something so delicious. 

He remembered the celebration feast after the battle with the Dead. They had supped on venison and mushroom pies, roasted potatoes with leeks and garlic, smoked sausages, beef-and-barley stew, carrots glazed in honey and nutmeg. There had been baked apples, wheels of white cheese, and honeyed oatcakes with fig preserves. Flagons of spiced wine and winter ale were passed to and fro. 

He had been exceedingly drunk that night after giving in to Tormund’s challenges to outdrink him. He drank to celebrate, there was no doubt of that, but he also drank to forget the pain. He drank to forget the inevitable challenges that still lay ahead of him. And he drank to momentarily forget the ones they had lost at the hands of the wights.

Yet even if he had tried, he could never erase the memory of the way Sansa looked up at him, and how it filled his heart with joy to see her smile. To see her safe. And to know that, for the night at least, they were together. 

More people than he could have possibly expected had survived, beating impossible odds. Of course, not all of them were so fortunate. He thought of Edd, his brother in all but name and blood. Never again would Jon laugh at Edd’s grumbling, or fight by his side, as he had done countless times before. Sorrow twisted in his gut. The only comfort he found in his grief was knowing that the very last Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch bravely gave his life to help end the greatest threat to mankind. Edd was owed eternal gratitude, as were all who perished alongside him.

Theon’s face floated before him then. Jon had spent years despising Theon. The arrogance and entitlement he wore like armor, the foolishness of his youth, and his bottomless pride had led Theon to commit horrendous acts of betrayal against the Starks. There was a time when Jon would have loved nothing more than to erase him from their lives, to hurt him the way that he had hurt the ones Jon loved the most. Had it not been for what he did for Sansa, for protecting her when Jon couldn’t, for saving her and sending her straight into Jon’s arms, he might have sealed Theon’s fate himself. 

But Jon had seen the drastic change in Theon with his own eyes. He had listened intently and gratefully as Sansa shared with him the details of what Theon had done to redeem himself. Jon forgave him. He called him a brother. He had seen the tears that streamed down Sansa’s cheeks as she kissed Theon’s cold, lifeless face and said goodbye. He wished he could have taken Sansa in his arms and held her close, stroking her hair until her tears faded away. He wished he could thank Theon for what he had done for Sansa, for sacrificing his life to protect Bran, and in doing so, holding off the Dead just a little while longer, giving Arya just enough time. 

“Arya,” Jon chuckled ruefully. 

If it weren’t for her, all would have been lost forever. She was a born warrior. And now, a legend. The songs would sing of her heroism and the stories of her bravery would endure for generations. 

Jon had already heard the stories and rumors. He had even listened to Arya as she spoke of her list and of those she had crossed off herself, the account of Baelish’s death being one of them. It was one thing to have merely heard of her many kills, to imagine her in battle or envision her wielding Needle, the sword he had forged for her so many moons ago. But to have witnessed one of her kills himself was another thing. He saw the look in her eyes. He noticed the satisfaction and even the indifference. 

He couldn’t help but allow it to shape the way he thought of her now. Something had shifted between them. She was no longer the same little girl he embraced the fateful day their paths forked so drastically, and it pained him to think of the horrors she must have suffered to become the assassin she is today. Not even just a brave warrior or a legend, but something darker. 

His thoughts turned to Lyanna Mormont, one of the fiercest creatures he had ever known. She had defended and supported him as King in the North to the last, not even balking at Daenerys as she said so, displaying such immense courage and confidence in one so small. She faced down a giant wight and died as she lived: never relenting, fighting to be heard and revered. Songs would surely be sung in her honor.

He thought of his mother, whom Lyanna was named after. Since Sam told him the truth about his real mother and father, Jon had been consumed with what it meant for everyone else. For the North, for the Realm, and even for Dany who had made the revelation of their blood ties all about her self-proclaimed right to the Iron Throne. She had begged, and even commanded him to keep it a secret. She hadn’t once considered what this discovery had done to him, of how it had torn his identity to shreds and obliterated all he thought he knew to be true and honorable. 

Where was his heart amongst the ruins? How could he reconcile the lie his life was built upon with the man he had become? Who was he now? A murderer? A war criminal? A dead man walking? Was he a Targaryen now, or was he a Stark? 

Dany had wanted him to forget who he truly was. Sansa had wanted him to embrace it. The two were like night and day. 

Jon sat at his table with his head in his hands, staring at the fire, allowing his thoughts to turn again to his mother. After spending his whole life dreaming of her, wondering who she could have been, he finally knew. And the knowledge filled him with such deep sadness. He wanted to know more about her, more than he had learned of her growing up believing she was his aunt who was captured by a Targaryen prince, raped and murdered.

Bran told Jon that she had loved his father and married him willingly and that she died giving Jon life. The thought of her death filled him with such guilt. He knew it was common for women to die in the birthing bed, common enough for it to happen every day. But it didn’t ease the guilt or the nagging feeling that he had killed her. 

He had killed so many since then. Maybe that was his fate, to kill and kill and never stop killing and fighting and die doing it. 

But he had had his fill of fighting and wanted to be rid of it. He longed for peace, to be home at Winterfell, with the only family he had left. Most of all, he ached to be with Sansa. 

She deserved to know his true feelings regarding Dany. Most importantly (and most terrifyingly), she deserved to know of his adoration for her. But if he could muster the nerve to confess, he needed to wait for the right time. Jon feared nothing more than a life without Sansa. He had tasted the loss of her as a prisoner at Dragonstone. It was hollow and bitter on his tongue. He selfishly wanted to savor the sweetness her presence offered him for just a while longer. And when the time came, he would give her the truth. If his honesty made her hate him, if she could never forgive him for all the pain he had caused her, as he knew he deserved, he would go North. 

Perhaps the North was where he belonged, where he could roam free and attempt to mend his broken heart. He’d start a new life and be with Ghost, whom he missed terribly. 

The grey light of dawn crept softly through the shuttered windows, interrupting his thoughts. Jon sighed deep in his chest, then pushed himself out of the chair, which scraped the floor as he stood. He removed his dirty clothes and tossed them onto his bed as he crossed to the wardrobe. There he found some clean smallclothes and put them on. He also noticed a neatly folded stack of unfamiliar clothing and proceeded to withdraw each item to inspect. He found two pairs of black breeches, several tunics made of heavy cotton, each a different shade of blue and grey, and two black woollen doublets, twice as thick as the one he wore home. 

“Sansa,” he whispered endearingly as he ran his thumb over a small white direwolf embroidered over the quilted fabric of the doublet. The Stark sigil a reminder from her of who she believed he was. The gesture made his chest ache with longing and guilt. 

He carefully laid the doublet upon his bed and beheld it as he pulled on a fresh pair of breeches. He crossed to the washstand and splashed his face and hair with cold water, then roughly combed his raven curls with his fingers and tied it in a knot at the nape of his neck. He dressed in the dark grey tunic and one of the doublets Sansa had left for him, as well as his leather jerkin and gloves. The cloak she made hung over his chair and he studied the direwolf sigil, as he did nearly every day before putting it on. 

She looked breathtaking the day she gave it to him, wearing the blue velvet dress she had sewn herself. The wolf bit was incredibly detailed and expertly embroidered. He could easily recall how difficult it had been to keep his eyes from lingering there, where the wolf rested much too close to her breast. Her copper hair was pulled back away from her face in braids and her eyes were an intensely bright, bewitching blue, causing him to awkwardly stumble over his words like a green boy. 

Jon thought of that day countless times since. Whenever he looked at the wolf sigil embossed on the leather straps of his cloak he was reminded of Sansa’s captivating eyes and her proud smile as he clumsily thanked her for the cherished gift.

At times the temptation to drown in the depths of her ocean eyes proved impossible to resist. As he gazed at her in the Great Hall only an hour before, he didn’t even attempt to hide his greedy stare. She was smiling softly to herself, lost in thought. And he couldn’t help but be jealous of whomever her thoughts had turned to, for it did seem she had someone particular in mind, though who he tried not to imagine. It seemed Sansa may have had secrets of her own.

And then she looked straight into him, her smile quickly fading. Her lips parted slightly and warmth blazed within his belly. She turned and hid her face from him and he thought that maybe her cheeks had flushed when those piercing eyes broke away from his. The intensity between them vanished when she asked of his hunger and he tried to hide his desire with a joke. It seemed to work. Jests usually helped ease the tension between them when their emotions flared.

Arguments would often end in heated silence unless he made a jape to soften their fervency. They’d argue with a passion that threatened to set them afire, rendering them both breathless and panting. Oft times he thought she might never relent, face flushed and eyes smoldering like the blue flame of the hottest fire. He’d then resist the urge to seize her by the waist and crash his lips into hers with no care who witnessed. 

But beyond the desire he found himself needing her approval above all else. Her opinion of him superseded all others in his mind. Mistaking her persistence for annoyance and frustration, he would think that she didn’t trust or believe in him. But eventually, he grew to understand that her faith in him was the impetus for her perseverance. He finally understood it was because she knew he could rise to the occasion that she called him to it. 

Sansa relentlessly urged him to be the leader she believed he could be. Her willful persistence was one of the things he loved and loathed the most about her. Even now, after giving up his crown, something he knew angered her and likely caused her to feel abandoned and betrayed, she continued to do everything in her power to make him King. She risked her life for it. She broke a promise for it. 

It was long past time he made amends.

He had a mind to visit the godswood in supplication for the strength he would need to face Sansa’s questioning eyes and the fortitude to beg her pardon, however undeserving he may have been of it.

Jon fastened Longclaw at his hip and swung Sansa’s cloak over his shoulders. He left his chambers and walked through the corridors of the Keep, slowing his pace to a near halt as he approached Sansa’s door. A soft glow emitted from beneath it and he knew that she was awake. The Great Keep was quiet, but she was not asleep and the thought of it made him feel forlorn.

He walked on.


	4. This Heart of Stone, Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya discovers a secret and Sansa confronts Jon in the godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter written. I had a lot going on, but this chapter is extra long so I hope that makes up for it a bit! Also, there are mentions of past abuse, nothing graphic or detailed, but it is definitely mentioned so please take care if that is a trigger for you <3

The muffled sounds of an owl’s persistent hooting outside finally began to wane as the rhythmic call of the creature had been replaced by the whistling of the wind. It grew stronger and louder. Its harshness threatened to permeate the glass behind the window that had begun to let in a small, grey luster creep in. Its soft light competed with the dying fire’s glow. 

Morning had arrived. All through the night Sansa barely slept. Her restlessness kept her drifting between wake and sleep since the moment her head hit the feathered pillow. That had been hours ago. She resigned to give up the fight for a peaceful sleep and with an exasperated sigh, she lifted the bed furs off of her restive body and swung her legs over the edge until her feet hit the cool stone floor. 

The granite walls of Winterfell were usually not cool to the touch, especially here in Mother and Father’s rooms where the springs flowed the hottest. But since the long winter arrived it had become more difficult to keep the bitter cold from creeping in. Extra logs of wood were added to each fire. More layers of fur were sewn onto capes and piled atop beds. 

Sansa quickly crept toward the hearth to add a log to the fading flames and watched as they licked around the splintering billet. She pulled a chair closer to the warmth emanating from the resuscitated blaze and sat down. Lifting her legs off of the floor, she drew them into an embrace and rested her chin on her knees. She stared out of the window at the snow that softly hovered in the fading black night like dust motes floating in a ray of sunlight. The fire crackled and popped loudly as it consumed the fresh log, a soothing sound to her ears. 

The sun had set twice since last she saw or spoke with Jon. He had been hibernating since the night they came home. She had made sure to send a chambermaid to replenish his fire periodically and leave a hot meal for him whenever he arose. It had been so long since he had retired that she had been tempted on more than one occasion to sneak in there herself, just to make sure he hadn’t disappeared. 

She had once thought that it would have been enough just to have him safe in Winterfell. But that had been a lie. She wanted more. Sansa wanted desperately to look into his endlessly deep eyes and see the man she had fallen in love with. Before he left for Dragonstone. Before the wars. Before he met that woman who had bewitched him somehow. 

Sansa wanted to bring him back to life.

His presence splintered the wall surrounding her secret need to crawl into his bed and curl up next to him, allowing the warmth from both of their bodies to resuscitate their shattered hearts. She longed to have him by her side, the desire so strong it made her body ache. She could live and lead and move forward without Jon, but she simply did not want to. She had tasted the sharp void of his absence on her tongue for far too long. It was an acidity emptying her gut, scraping the edges of her heart.

She had survived much worse and learned to carefully craft the woman she is now. She stitched herself piece by piece, the thread of isolation draping her in strength, a steel mask concealing uncertainty and fear.

But Jon had made her a mess of contradictions. He was both a chink in her armor and a sword at her hip. Their reunion at Castle Black made her stronger in unexpected ways, surprising and frightening her all at once. 

A chill ran through her spine and down to her toes that had grown numb despite the heat that emanated from the fire. The woolen shift that she wore to bed each night was proving to be too thin for these long winter nights. It had grown colder in the castle walls, which were fortified with heat from the springs, and therefore it was certainly far too cold for anyone living outside of them. 

The North required more wool to spin, weave, and sew, but the dragons had consumed a great deal of their livestock (that was another significant loss Sansa could rightfully blame their mother for). She took note of the arrangements she would make for the day. At the top of her list was a personal visit to Duncan, a shepherd in Wintertown, to address the concern of his recently depleted flock and discuss plans to replenish his herd and rebuild his business. Plans for livestock with the rest of their farmers had already been set into motion, but she felt the urgency as each day grew colder and more mouths to feed and bodies to clothe had arrived. Sansa hoped that the leather and furs gathered from the dead would continue to provide the living with warmth in the meantime.

Her time in King’s Landing, and the abuse she endured at the hands of the Lannisters, as well as the grooming of Petyr Baelish, instilled a sharp mind for politics in Sansa. She learned the art of quiet rebellion and keen observation. Friends had been few. Shae and Margaery had been the only ones in the South. The former had taught her that trust could be a poison, while she learned from the latter that love and care for her people garnered admiration and allegiance. 

Whether the love Margaery displayed was genuine or had been feigned mattered little. It had yielded the desired effect. But Sansa’s love was genuine, she was sure of it. She had witnessed the fear that other rulers instilled in their subjects and it sent them all to the grave. 

But hadn’t Father’s nobility sent him to the chopping block as well? And hadn’t Mother and Robb’s trust in Walder Frey honoring guest right killed them as well?

Sansa would be wiser. She’d never stop learning from the mistakes of her loved ones and her foes. She would trust no one but Brienne and the pack.

But trust could not be born from dishonesty and secrets. She and Jon were both guilty of that. Their secrets and silence bred distance in the wake of their reunion and bridges could not be built in dark shadows. The King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell were no more. Their titles may change, but their roles would never truly return.

Sansa’s secret had already begun to break the walls of its confinement. And Jon’s secrets were many. They hid behind his guilty glances and his laden posture, weighed down by more than furs. His dismissiveness and refusal to speak of them burned hot and tight in her ribs, and the slow burn gathered in her chest at the remembrance of his sulking agitation, at his abrasive avoidance. She could scarcely swallow the bellow that caught in her throat because of it. Broken oath or no, she deserved an explanation. 

Agitated impatience simmered just beneath the surface of her skin and her attempts to hide it swiftly faded. It radiated from her as she stalked passed Arya in the courtyard the evening before, who had been overseeing Podrick train a group of recently orphaned young boys. 

Sansa was halfway to the heart tree when Arya appeared noiselessly beside her. They walked quietly the rest of the way and it wasn’t until they stood side by side, facing the anguished visage carved into the heart tree, did Arya break their shared silence.

“You’re angry.”

Sansa let out a sharp breath through her nostrils. “Of course I’m angry. I’m angry at Jon for bending the knee. I’m angry that he has yet to explain to me why he did it. After how much it cost us all to win back our home and our freedom, he decided to give it all up. I know he has said repeatedly that he did it to save the North, but did he truly? If the truth of it is that he loved her, and that’s the real reason he gave up everything we worked so hard to get back, then he betrayed us. He has asked me to trust him and have faith in him, and I have tried. I have done everything in my power to believe that he did it all to save us from the Others, but the less he trusts me with the truth of it, the harder it becomes for me to believe in him and his true motives.” Sansa said it all in a searing rush. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes briefly to collect herself. 

“I’m angry at myself because, after all of that, I’m the one begging for forgiveness. I’m the one who is losing sleep over breaking an oath when Jon is the one who gave up his crown and bent the knee and bartered our freedom. He’s the one who led our men into a senseless, cruel battle. I’m angry that after all of that, I can’t help but worry that Jon won’t ever speak to me again over one broken promise when he has broken so many.” 

Sansa blinked back the tears that threatened to escape her. She hadn’t realized she felt all of those things until they were tumbling out of her. Not until her sister acknowledged her anger did she realize it was there. She hadn’t thought it through and now that the words were out, she wasn’t sure if she wanted them to be or not. But it was too late to take it back. 

She glanced briefly toward Arya. “And I’m angry at you, too. You’ve all returned home, and yet I feel as though you and Jon are farther away than ever.”

“I’m right here, Sansa.”

Sansa turned her whole body to face her. “But you’re not, are you? You’ve spent most of your time with Podrick and Brienne, and when you’re not sparring or training you’ve been avoiding me. You all have.”

Arya sighed and turned to face Sansa. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know Arya, I just— I want answers. I want to know what happened in King’s Landing.”

Arya inhaled deeply. “It’s best you let Jon tell you.”

“But what does it matter if he tells me?” Sansa scoffed. “What does it matter if you tell me or Ser Davos or Jaime Lannister for that matter?! I haven’t seen any of them since you all arrived. Brienne says she knows nothing, though I find that hard to believe.”

“I know Jon wants to speak with you.” Arya looked intently into Sansa’s eyes. “I know he wants to tell you himself. That’s why we’ve been avoiding you. He made it clear to all of us that he be the one to speak with you first.”

Sansa shook her head incredulously. “Then why wouldn’t he speak with me about it the night you arrived? He was silent when he escorted me to my chambers and he could scarcely even look me in the eye!” Sansa’s voice began to raise and waver and tears pricked at her eyes again. She tried to blink them back, gazing at the blurring red leaves of the heart tree.

“Arya, I just want to know the truth. I want us to trust each other again. I don’t know how to get things back to the way they were before he left for Dragonstone. Before he bent the knee. Before he brought _her_ to our home.”

Silence settled between them for a few moments. Arya studied the look of despair on Sansa’s face and Sansa could feel her sister’s eyes upon her. She exhaled sharply.

“What is it, Arya?” Sansa could not help but sound annoyed.

“You love him,” Arya blurted out. It wasn’t an accusation, but a realization. 

Sansa scoffed again. “Of course I do. He’s my br-- cousin.” She attempted to sound cavalier, hoping it might cover up the truth.

Arya rolled her eyes slowly. “You know that’s not how I meant it.”

Sansa looked at her sharply. “Arya, I-”

“You don’t need to explain, Sansa,” Arya interrupted. “I mean, it’s odd. If I’m honest, it makes my stomach turn a bit. The thought of you two--” Arya scrunched her nose and it made Sansa burn with guilt. Arya glanced at her and then quickly shifted her features into a somewhat neutral expression. 

“Look, he was never the brother to you that he is to me. And we were all apart for so long. People change. Things happen. I guess it sort of makes sense. Gods, Jon died. You both had been through so much. And then suddenly you were together, taking back Winterfell. You helped him become king. You ruled side by side and probably spent all of your time with one another. You were different people when you found each other again and none of us are the same as we were when we left Winterfell as children. Those people are dead now. And now you’re not brother and sister anymore. You never were. So it’s fine. I’ll get used to it.” Arya chuckled. “And here I thought his affections were unreciprocated.”

Sansa hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“The way he looks at you. How his lips part and his eyes go all soft like a pup’s.” Arya mimicked the look, her brows lifting slightly and mouth softly parted. Sansa rolled her eyes, disbelieving and Arya chuckled again. 

“Come on, Sansa, you must have noticed. Even the way he looked at Daenerys was different than the way he looks at you. He looked at her with fear. He looks at you with reverence. There’s a difference.”

“Did he say anything to you on your way back home?” Sansa asked cautiously.

“No, not exactly. He just seemed… different. Whenever we spoke of you, it was as if he was holding something back. I got suspicious. So when we came home I watched him, and you as well, to be honest… and then I knew.”

“But you don’t know, Arya. You’re speculating. Besides, if he had any manner of affection for me at all he would stop hiding in his rooms and tell me what happened in King’s Landing since he forbade anyone else from speaking to me,” Sansa spoke with breathless exasperation.

“I’m sure he’ll tell you when he wakes… whenever that will be.”

“I hope it’s soon. He’s been in there all night and day,” Sansa complained, sounding almost like a child.

“You _do_ love him,” Arya teased.

Sansa’s eyes grew wide. “Arya, swear to me that you will never speak of this to anyone.” 

“I swear it.” Arya’s hands raised in mock surrender. She looked pointedly at Sansa. “Am I to assume that you won’t tell Jon that you love him?”

“Yes.”

Arya groaned, “You are both as stubborn as mules.”

“That’s not fair, Arya. I simply don’t want to scare him off to the Wall or farther North where we’ll never see him again.” Sansa looked down at her gloved hands. “We need to stay together, as a pack. I don’t want to lose him, or you, or Bran. If I have to swallow my feelings in the interest of keeping us all together, then so be it.”

Silence fell upon them. Sansa could feel the familiar knots of shame tightening in her belly. She had never admitted her true feelings to anyone and hadn’t planned to until Bran had uncovered it. And now that Arya knew, her cheeks burned with deep chagrin at the scandal that was her heart laid bare. If she felt this humiliated at the admission of her secret desire to Arya, she did not want to imagine the depths of mortification that awaited her if Jon discovered the truth. 

“Before he left for Dragonstone, I wanted to believe that my feelings for Jon were more innocent than they truly were. I told myself that what I felt was admiration and pride and a sense of security. But I was fooling myself.” Sansa turned to face the red tears streaming down the eyes of the weirwood tree before them.

“Sometimes I think that the only reason I fell in love with him is because he is safe. Because I knew that nothing would come of it. He would never touch me. He would never hurt me.” A mirthless laugh escaped from her lips. “But I was wrong, Arya. So stupidly, foolishly wrong. 

“After Joffrey, Tyrion and Ramsay and Littlefinger, my heart had turned to stone. I told myself that my feelings for Jon were the twisted, misguided affections for a man who made me feel safe for the first time since Father died. I told myself I was confused and that maybe all the pain and fear and torture I endured at the hands of other men who wanted me for my name, for what I could give them, had perverted me somehow. How else could I have fallen in love with my brother? How could I have let that happen? And then he left. And I was alone again.”

Sansa returned her gaze to her sister who had been watching her closely. “But then Bran came back home, and then you. And I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I thought that maybe that would change how I felt for Jon. I thought that it would make me realize how wrong my feelings were for him and that I would let it go.” Another wave of shame washed over her and it made her look away from Arya again. 

Sansa stepped toward a fallen trunk and sat upon it. Her eyes focused on the small pond that had frozen over, covered by a blanket of dead leaves and snow. “But when he came home, I found that I wanted him even more. That I hadn’t been able to let it go after all. I still clung to the shameful desire, had gripped it tighter than before. I hated myself and I hated him and most of all I hated her. 

“And here I am with a heart of stone that cracks a little bit more at every thought of losing him. No matter how angry I am with him, no matter how much it hurts to see his stupid, sulking face, I can’t lose him.” She drew in a breath to steady herself and stop the tears that stung her eyes. “So no, I won’t tell him. He can’t be a lone wolf again, none of us can. And I’ll get over it, Arya. I’ll find a way.” 

“You deserve to be loved, Sansa,” Arya said softly, her voice as calm and gentle as snowfall. 

Sansa’s eyes welled with the tears she had been fighting and she lifted her head to face Arya. The kindness Sansa found in her sister’s eyes overwhelmed her and she could no longer hold back the tears. They flowed hot and relentlessly like the crimson tears of the weirwood by her side. 

Arya sat down on the trunk and enveloped Sansa in her arms, squeezing her tightly. After a time, and with a pool of Sansa’s tears stained upon her leather doublet, Arya leaned back to look into her eyes. “Whenever one of you does decide to swallow your pride and tell the truth, I won’t stand in your way. You both deserve happiness. And if it’s with each other, then it doesn’t matter what anyone else feels about it.”

“Thank you for trying to understand despite your revulsion, but it doesn’t matter. It won’t come to that.”

Arya tittered. “Mmmm, alright then.”

They stood and walked arm in arm toward the Great Hall where everyone had been gathering for supper. They sat together at the high table with Bran and an empty chair for Jon that remained as such throughout the evening.

Sansa had hoped that he would come to dine with them, but he had eluded her still. She sent one of the chambermaids to bring him supper and ale, but when the girl returned she said he had not been awake. If Jon truly had slept through the last two days, he’d be starving by the time he woke and she did not intend to offer him anything cold or stale, no matter how angry she was at him. Sansa instructed the girl to return to his rooms at dawn to replace the meal she left. Shortly thereafter Sansa retired to her chambers as well where sleep had also eluded her. 

She had spent the night willing her mind to cease its relentless rumination but to no avail. Her conversation with Arya had settled into her, heavy and deep. The anger she spoke of, and the realization of its existence, twisted in her belly and stole her sleep.

If Jon had willingly handed his crown and the freedom of his people to the power of that conquering queen, duty would demand Sansa to act. If he bent the knee purely out of lust, or worse, out of love, that kind of betrayal could not be ignored. The Jon she knew and loved would never be so blind. Her heart hoped, a fierce and desperate hope, that he was still the man who promised he would protect her. The man who so gently held her cheek and pressed his lips to her brow. She wanted Bran to be right. And Arya, too. She wanted Jon to love her.

Come morning her thoughts had tangled into a knot of twisted passion, vacillating between rage and desire. It was madness. It taunted her, dangling sleep just beyond her reach until she turned from it, embracing the dawn.

She sat between the fire before her and the ice outside her window. With her chin upon her knees and shadows beneath her eyes, she gave in to their heaviness and let them close. For the thousandth time, she imagined what it might feel like to have Jon’s full, soft lips pressed against her own. To feel his rough hands gently caress her skin and slowly graze her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She could almost feel his lips plant tender kisses on her neck and shoulders, her collarbone, and all the way down her spine. The imagined sensation sent shivers through her. She had never been touched in such a way by a man who didn’t want to hurt her. Most days she believed she never would. That these pleasures would exist solely in her fantasies. 

Father had once told her he would make her a match with someone brave, gentle, and strong. She had been naive enough to protest, not knowing yet what a monster her prince truly was. If only she had listened. If only Father had told Jon the truth. That he wasn’t his bastard son, but his nephew. Their lives could have been so different. Perhaps she and Jon could have been betrothed in another life. A life that didn’t riddle her with countless scars on her body and in her heart. Where she would have only known gentle love and sweetness and a heart unmarred by brutality, calcified to stone.

But the ink of their past was dry. In this life the only soft romance she could possess would be confined to the indulgent musings of her mind, abstractions of Jon’s soft raven curls brushing her skin and tangling between her fingers. Of his eyes, heady and dark, roaming over her body.

A gentle knock at the door startled Sansa out of her reverie. She rose from the chair beside the fire and crossed to her wardrobe to fetch her bed robes. She put them on and called toward the door. “Come in.”

Mina, Sansa’s most trusted chambermaid, bid her good morning with a smile and entered carrying a steaming bowl of porridge, dried apricots plumped in mulled wine, and two strips of bacon. 

“In my solar, please, Mina,” Sansa instructed. She had thin, blonde hair that was pulled back into a braid. Her bright green eyes were lovely and kind. Sansa was fond of Mina. There was a sweet innocence she exuded which at times made Sansa feel forlorn, as it reminded her of her own stifled softness. But Mina was a delightful girl and Sansa enjoyed the air of cheerfulness that seemed to surround her.

Mina placed the tray of food on Sansa’s desk in her solar, which was attached to her bedchamber, and returned to her with a smile. “Shall I help you dress before you break your fast, m’Lady?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sansa breathed. 

Mina crossed to the wardrobe and proceeded to remove one of the dark grey gowns and Sansa nodded her head in approval. Sansa never fully undressed in front of maids anymore. The last time she recalled being nude in front of any other woman was Myranda, Ramsay’s lover. After what Ramsay had done to her body, she hated the thought of prying eyes upon her scarred flesh. It wasn’t a secret that Ramsay had hurt her, but the evidence of it was private. She wanted no stares of interest or pity, nor any questions, not that anyone would dare to ask. 

Maester Wolkan had been the only other soul to see all of Sansa’s scars. As Maester to the Boltans, he had witnessed the abuse she endured at the hands of Ramsay. He treated her wounds nearly every day, stitching up lacerations both fresh and reopened, providing her with salves and poultices, as well as moon tea when necessary. Such a risk could have resulted in Wolkan’s torture or even death. Sansa could never forget such loyalty and kindness. She had insisted he stay on as Maester when she and Jon took back their home.

Even so, Sansa always changed her own smallclothes and shift, but she often welcomed an offer of help to tie up the laces of her bodice and gown.

The dress that Mina had selected was made by Sansa herself, as were most all of her clothing. Horizontally pleated fur was sewn atop the bodice and covered at the waist by a leather belt. A steel circle necklace covered her chest, close to her heart, and the chain of it attached to the leather belt at her waist. A steel needle dangled from the chain at her hip. 

After tying up the laces, Mina made quick work of brushing out any tangles and sweeping away all of the soft hair from Sansa’s face. She then fashioned it into interlocking braids circling at the crown of her head. A single braid fell from beneath the crown and rested atop a cascade of copper waves. It was the Northern style. Lady Catelyn had worn her hair as such and Sansa drew strength in emulating her Mother, donning the mask of the Lady of Winterfell. 

When Mina finished Sansa dismissed her politely and sat at the desk in her solar to break her fast. The porridge was still steaming slightly, but cool enough for her to eat. She spooned the apricots into the porridge one by one as she nibbled on a strip of bacon and glanced at the piles of paperwork and letters scattered across her desk. The weight of delayed responsibilities hung heavy upon her. 

Amongst the mess of unanswered scrolls was a letter from Samwell Tarly bidding her blessings and inquiring after Jon’s wellbeing. Much like herself and the rest of Westeros, Sam had not known the details of the events in King’s Landing. She could not answer all of his inquiries until she spoke with Jon and so the letter remained ignored for the time being.

Having finished her meal, Sansa rose from her desk and crossed once more into her bedchambers where she retrieved a fur-lined cloak, leather boots, and gloves. She laced up her boots and then proceeded to wrap the cloak over her shoulders. 

Sansa opened the door of her chambers to a smiling Podrick, who had presumably taken over Brienne’s shift as guard. He greeted her with a bow of his head. They walked together through the halls of the Great Keep and down the spiral staircase toward the courtyard. Sansa pulled her gloves on as they approached the doors, thanked Podrick for escorting her, and bid good morning to the guards that had been posted there. The wind was biting and harsh. It was no longer snowing, but she could feel the icy air kiss the skin of her neck, crawling down into her shoulders beneath the heavy furs, and she shivered nonetheless. 

The courtyard was busier than usual. Reconstruction had already begun weeks ago to restore the damage that the battle had inflicted upon the grounds of Winterfell. Sansa had overseen the plans herself, and with the help of Lord Royce, she had managed to find men who had recovered from their injuries to enlist in the rebuilding. There weren’t many men left who could help considering Jon had taken the bulk of their Northmen with him to fight in King’s Landing. 

She feared that Winterfell would not be restored for many years. The damage done to most of the grounds was considerable. The Smithy and the stables had sustained most of the destruction, along with the walls surrounding the South Gate and, of course, the Crypts. 

Sansa had not yet ventured back into the Crypts since the battle ended. Any time she so much as passed the entrance her throat would tighten over the echo of her racing heart. She had fought the corpses of her ancestors with the dagger Arya gave her that night. The weight of that weapon in her hand as foreign to her as the particular kind of bravery it took to wield it. Sometimes she would wake from sleep breathless and sweating, the image of icy blue eyes and rotting flesh and bones burned in her mind. Yet another terror that haunted her nights. 

Sooner or later she’d need to push this horror out of her mind and face the darkness that awaited her. As the Lady of Winterfell, she must make the restoration of the Crypts a priority. Now that Jon had returned with what was left of their army she hoped it would aid in propelling the process and shortening the time it might take to return Winterfell to its previous glory.

Sansa scanned the yard and noticed Brienne and Arya conversing outside of the Guest House and she strode toward them. Brienne caught sight of Sansa first.

“Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Brienne. I trust you slept well?” Sansa smiled slyly as her lady knight bowed her head ever so slightly and tried her best to hide the blush that began blooming upon her cheeks.

“Yes, my lady. Thank you.”

“And how is Ser Jaime? I have not seen him since he arrived.”

“He is still resting, my lady.” Brienne glanced at Arya. “His journey to King’s Landing and back proved to be very taxing on him.”

Sansa breathed deeply. “I imagine so. I am very anxious to hear his version of events. Well, anyone’s version, to be quite honest.”

Arya cleared her throat and squinted her eyes in the direction of the stables.

“Speaking of which, have either of you seen Jon this morning?” Sansa asked, watching as they glanced at each other and then back at Sansa.

“I haven’t seen him,” Arya admitted as she peeked at Brienne, “but I do believe he has finally left his chambers.” 

“Yes,” Brienne said, hesitantly. “I did speak with him briefly not more than an hour ago. He was heading toward the godswood.”

“And no one has seen him since?”

“No, my lady. I don’t believe so.”

“Thank you, Brienne.” Sansa smiled as Brienne bowed once more and turned to walk away. “Or is it Ser Brienne now?”

She turned back around to face Sansa, a proud smile gracing her usually stern features. “Yes, I suppose it is. But my lady, please, address me as Brienne.” Sansa smiled and nodded. Brienne mirrored the gesture at both she and Arya before taking her leave, returning to the Guest House.

“I suppose you’ll be heading to the godswood, then?” Arya asked in a slightly teasing manner.

“No,” Sansa said slowly, “I have other matters to attend to. If Jon wants to speak with me he can seek me out himself.”

Arya rolled her eyes and stepped closer to her sister so that she could whisper, “Go find out if he loves you.”

“Arya!” Sansa’s eyes widened and she quickly glanced around to make sure no one around them heard.

Smiling mischievously, Arya jerked her head in the direction of the godswood. “Go on. He’s probably waiting for you.” She started walking backwards before Sansa could admonish her again and shouted, “Your errands can wait!” She turned on her heel and strode toward the Smithy near the South Gate, whistling a tune.

Arya’s shout attracted the attention of a few workers and passersby, but anyone who noticed quickly turned away to mind their own business. She sighed in exasperation, then turned around and charged toward the godswood before she could change her mind.

Sansa opened one of the wooden gates that led to the godswood and as she closed it soundlessly behind her, a sudden wave of nausea gripped tight in her gut. She swallowed the taste of bile that rose in her throat and slowly, deeply inhaled the frost-bitten air to still the rapid pounding in her chest. She nearly turned to flee, but a voice rose up demanding her bravery, insisting that she stop avoiding the inevitable, that Bran and Arya must be wrong and she had nothing to fear. Jon couldn’t possibly reciprocate her feelings and she wasn’t there to find out that he didn’t love her. She was there to get answers. She was there to demand he tell her, once and for all, exactly what it is that he forbade everyone to tell her.

Steeling herself, Sansa listened to the voice urging her forward, commanding her feet to trod through the snow-covered path. The voice grew stronger and more insistent. It pushed her feet to weave between the trees following the trail of his footprints in the snow. Bright red leaves came into view. The voice stilled, an echo disappearing in the wind. 

She froze at the sight of him standing beneath the canopy of leaves. He was as still and silent as a fortress, staring at the carved face in the trunk of the weirwood, deep red tears streaming from its eyes. He wore the cloak she had made for him a thousand moons ago. 

All at once a specter emerged from behind the tree. A whisper of white fur and red eyes trotted toward Jon as he removed the very cloak she had so lovingly crafted for him. Dusk descended upon the scene as Jon gently swept the cloak over a cascade of copper waves trailing down a pale grey gown. Warmth spread into Sansa’s gloved palms as the vision of Jon took the hands of the apparition beside him. 

With steps as light and quiet as she could manage, Sansa approached the dream before the sacred tree that had so entranced her, but the snap of a branch dissolved the image before her eyes as swift as it had appeared. Jon turned suddenly to the sound. To her.

“Sansa.” A small cloud escaped from his lips and disappeared, carrying her name on the wind.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No. No, not at all. I was about to leave.” He swallowed. “To look for you.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, sounding surprised. She stepped closer to the heart tree. “Well, you’ve found me.”

Jon smiled ruefully and drew in a deep breath. “Sansa, I-- I--” he stammered, and let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

She took a step closer to him. “Then allow me. I broke an oath to you. An oath that we made here in the godswood, and for _that_ , I am truly sorry. It’s for that I ask for your forgiveness.” 

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but Sansa silenced him with a raise of her hand. “But I’ve realized something in the last few days.” She drew in an anchoring breath and lifted her chin. “I’m not sorry that I told Tyrion. It was a risk, I know, but I took that risk because I could see the fear in his eyes. He knew what she was capable of. He knew that she wouldn’t hesitate to burn him alive or anyone else who stood in her way.” The words were tumbling out of her fast and strong. “I broke my oath to you because I couldn’t stay silent knowing that. Knowing what she could do to us.”

“It’s in the past. It’s over. There’s no need to ask for my forgiveness. You did it to protect the North--”

“Yes, but I also did it to protect you, and it cost me greatly, Jon. It cost me you, and any trust we had in one another. You asked me once if I had any faith in you at all. And I did.”

“But no longer?”

Sansa huffed, not even attempting to hide the incredulity in her voice. “Jon, you have scarcely spoken to me since you returned from Dragonstone. You marched home with armies and dragons and--and _her_. You threw away your crown, something that _we_ fought for, something that _I_ fought for you to keep while you were away. You expected me to welcome her with open arms after what her family did to ours. After you bent the knee and gave her our independence on a silver platter. And then you expected me to get down on my knees and thank her!” She turned away from him. The anger burned her cheeks and radiated through her limbs. 

“Sansa, we needed her dra--”

“I understand that we needed her dragons and her armies to defeat the dead. You’ve already driven that point into the ground. I’ve heard you moan about how much we needed her. I’ve heard enough.”

“We would have been doomed without them, Sansa.”

“If it weren’t for one of her dragons the dead wouldn’t have even broken through the wall! They wouldn’t have marched on our land and destroyed our home! If it weren’t for her breaking the battle plans perhaps so many wouldn’t have fallen. If--”

“I know!” Jon interrupted. “I know. You’re right. You told me not to go to Dragonstone. You told me not to go to King’s Landing. And you were right. I should have listened to you. I should have trusted your judgment. I shouldn’t have dismissed you or shut you out. I should have been honest with you from the moment I returned home.” Jon drew in a deep breath and sighed, a puff of fog evaporating as quickly as it appeared. “I’ve made so many mistakes, Sansa. I should have heeded your warnings. I was a fool.”

Sansa stepped forward, commanding his full attention. “Jon, I’m going to ask you once more: Did you bend the knee to save the North? Or because you love her?”

Jon screwed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sansa, before I tell you what happened in King’s Landing, there are some things you need to know.” He looked at her with guilty, pleading eyes. “I should have told you sooner. I should have answered you that night when you first asked me that question. I feared that being honest with you would put you in danger, so I said nothing, and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for that. For many things. I am the one who should be begging for your forgiveness. I shut you out. I kept things from you. I took my frustrations out on you. I pushed us apart because I thought it would keep you safe. But I know now that not trusting you with the truth might have been my worst mistake.”

Unshed tears filled his eyes. He looked down, blinking, and when he returned his eyes to hers, they were nearly dry again. “I want you to trust me again. I know I don’t deserve it, but I want to try to earn it back.”

“I wish we could go back to the way things were before, Jon. I just don’t know if we can.”

Jon took a step closer to her, never tearing his eyes away from hers, not even to blink, “Everything I did was to protect the North. Everything. I never loved her.”

Sansa’s breath hitched and tangled in her throat and her heart thudded so hard in her chest she thought he might see it. She swallowed hard, “But you-”

“You told me to be smarter than Father and Robb,” Jon said, a small smile ghosting the edge of his lips.

Sansa could not hide the relief as she exhaled, mouth agape and eyes filling with hope. “I-- h-how did…?”

“You were right about everything. It was a trap, just as you said it would be. When we arrived at Dragonstone she held us prisoner. She took away our weapons and our ship. I tried convincing her of the threat we all faced and that she needed us just as much as we needed her. That her refusal to aid in the war would kill us all. But she wouldn’t listen. She assumed I was there to bend the knee. But I wouldn’t budge. She was so arrogant and smug. You should have heard the speech she gave when she received us. Gods,” Jon scoffed, “I hate to admit it, but she was a bit frightening.” 

“I can imagine it,” Sansa quipped.

“Eventually she agreed to let us mine the dragonglass, thanks to Tyrion, but she still didn’t believe us. One moment she’d say that she would fight for our cause _if I bent the knee_, and then the next moment she’d be plotting to storm King’s Landing. I couldn’t trust her word. I had to give her an incentive. So I softened a bit.

“It wasn’t mercy or wisdom that held her back from using her dragons to get what she wanted. It was flattery and worship by her advisors. They had all fallen for her. Even Tyrion. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see how easy it could be to believe in her. She was beautiful and powerful. Sometimes I wanted to believe in her and her promises. But then she’d show her hand, and I’d again see her for who she truly was.

“And then I started to sense her... _affections_ for me.” He looked away, visibly uncomfortable.

“I had to accept that we’d never get her help if there wasn’t anything in it for her. So I softened a bit more. I tried smiling. Whenever I disagreed with her, I’d keep my mouth shut. I let her believe I was always on her side. And when she needed to be placated, I just appealed to her ego.” 

“That’s why you kept calling her _My Queen_.” Sansa thought of each time Jon had deferred to Daenerys. She had seen it as adoration, but Arya was right. It was fear.

“Aye. I let her, and everyone else, believe that I loved her. And it worked… for a time. Then when you saw right through her, and when she saw that the North loves you more than they could ever love her, well...” Jon shook his head and worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “I had to protect you, Sansa. I had to protect the North. When Sam told me who my mother and father were, I had to tell her. If she had discovered the truth of my identity without me telling her first, she would have seen it as treason. She would have burned us all for plotting to take the throne from her. I had to keep the peace however I possibly could. I tried distracting her. I tried--” he released a shaky sigh.

“Did you bed her?”

Jon’s eyes quickly shot to hers and then he dropped his head, inhaling deeply in his chest. Sansa knew the answer before he even gave it. But to his credit, he lifted his head and looked unwaveringly into her eyes, “Aye, I did.” 

Sansa looked away, struggling to fight the twisting in her belly at the image that came to her, unbidden. Naked bodies like porcelain, calloused hands gripping white hair, lips on skin dampened with glistening sweat. She shook the image from her mind and shut her eyes tight. She couldn’t let him see how much this pained her, how deep it cut. He would know her true feelings and she would never forget the shame that washed over her for the heartbreaking jealousy she felt. Sansa inhaled and steeled herself, and with her best attempt at sounding indifferent she said, “I thought as much.”

Jon stepped toward her slowly, his hands up slightly as if in surrender, his dark eyes pleading. “Sansa, please trust me when I tell you that I never, _never_ loved her. I could never have loved her. I could see who she truly was, even if she couldn’t, even if no one else could.”

“Was that before or after you bent the knee?”

“It was after.” Jon sounded defeated. He looked up at the sky, squinting. “Sansa, she was... mercurial. I did what I had to do to make her trust me. If I hadn’t, the chance of her going back on her word was too great. I couldn’t take that risk. I needed to secure her forces before the dead marched upon us.”

Sansa’s eyes searched everything around her. She turned and faced the heart tree. “That’s what she meant when she said you manipulated her.”

“When did she say that?”

“After Jaime Lannister’s trial.” She stole a glance back at him and his brows were knit fiercely together. She turned back around and spoke to the face in the tree before her, “She tried to appeal to me with flattery, though that no longer works with me. She asked me why I was bothered that you loved her and I told her that men do stupid things for women, that they’re easily manipulated. And then she went into a speech about how her life’s mission was to win back the Iron Throne, that you convinced her to help you with _your_ war. She asked me, ‘who manipulated whom?’ Those were her exact words. She meant it as a jape, of course. But there was a moment when I thought that maybe you _were_ manipulating her.” 

She paused and shook her head slowly. “But then I’d see the way you looked at her. You seemed so different. Like you had fallen into a trap. And she was so beautiful. I could see they all loved her. And that you did, too.”

“It was an act, Sansa. Believe me.” Jon bridged the gap between them and took hold of her elbow. He pulled her gently to face him until they were close enough to feel each other’s breath. The fog that emitted from both of their lips mingled together in the frigid air before fading away. His hand was still holding her arm and his thumb gently massaged the inside of her elbow. “Sansa, trust me, please. I could never love her. And not just because she was tyrannical or arrogant or entitled, but because--” Jon heaved a shuddering sigh, his eyes searched Sansa’s as though he thought he might find the words he needed in them. He blinked rapidly and then finally opened his mouth to speak, but the ghost of a word died in his throat at the sound of another’s voice.

“Pardon the intrusion, my Lady.” Brienne’s voice broke the trance they found themselves in. “The council is ready for you.”

Jon suddenly let go of Sansa’s arm and stepped away from her, panting.

Sansa reluctantly tore her eyes away from Jon. “Council?”

“I called for it,” Jon confessed. “I think it’d be best to tell you what happened with everyone who was there to witness it.” 

Sansa watched as Jon collected himself and when he raised his eyes to meet hers she nodded. “Shall we, then?”

Jon and Sansa walked side by side as they followed the path toward the wooden gate that led to the courtyard. Brienne trailed close behind Sansa. She tried her best not to dwell on the look in Jon’s eyes mere seconds before they were interrupted. He looked anxious. He looked as if he might be sick. And yet he had composed himself quickly as they parted. His steps were confident and steady as they walked side-by-side through the godswood. She could feel his eyes upon her and she longed to steal a glance to see what she might find in their beautiful darkness. Resisting the urge, she trained her eyes on the path ahead.

As they crossed the threshold of the wooden gate and stepped into the courtyard, Sansa straightened her back and held her head higher, fully reclaiming the mask of Lady Stark. Brienne quickened her pace. She walked ahead of them toward the Great Hall where the council had presumably prepared to convene. 

Once inside Sansa surveyed the group before her. Quiet chatter died completely as all eyes turned and rested solely on her. The time had finally come. Sansa would no longer be left in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa will finally find out what happened in the next chapter! Now I just have to go write it, eeeek! Thanks so much for all the amazing comments and the kudos! It truly keeps me going and writing this fic!


	5. The Death of Duty, Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finally gives Sansa a detailed account of what happened during the sack of King's Landing and the death of Daenerys Targaryen as well as delivers some shocking news he learned on the journey home to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am so sorry for taking so ridiculously long to update this fic. I got way in my head about this chapter, and about the direction that this fic was already going in and wondered if I had made some mistakes, but then I just realized that I'm writing what I want to write and that's all that matters and I just hope that the icing on the cake is that this fic brings at least a sliver of enjoyment to others, just as many Jonsa fics have done for me. I actually had most of this chapter written months ago and just sort of froze up in the editing process, but with the encouragement of my beta I was finally able to get back into it and finish editing. I also really struggled with the decision to include certain new developments that I'll let you all read for yourselves. I hope that you enjoy it! This one is a doozy!
> 
> Also, I've changed the rating to mature and added a major character death warning because this chapter includes descriptions of violence and death, including the death of Daenerys. Just be warned that there are descriptions of death and injury, as well as descriptions of battle. But I don't go into any more graphic detail than what we've seen on the show. Please take care if this is triggering for you.
> 
> I've also updated the tags for any future readers so they know what they're getting into. I'm sure that I'll be updated them as the story continues to unfold. I've realized that in the future it might be best for me to complete a fic before uploading it so that I can update regularly and also appropriately tag from the beginning, but we'll see what the future holds. This fic has become way bigger than I originally intended it to and as I've written it it has just taken a life of its own. 
> 
> Comments and kudos and encouragement truly give me the will to keep writing it so THANK YOU SO MUCH to all of you who have showed your love. It means more than you know <3

He took no issue with Brienne. On the contrary, he was grateful to her for all that she had done for Sansa. She had helped bring Sansa back to him. He could count on one hand the people he trusted to keep her safe and Brienne ranked highest among them. His gratitude to her was truly unending. 

But _seven hells_, Jon had never loathed her presence more than at that moment. 

He had been closer than ever to revealing his undying love for Sansa. To confessing how it was the thought of her that woke him each morning and sent him to sleep each night. It was she--radiant, gorgeous, infuriating she--who set his heart on fire, not the unburnt skin of the dragon queen. It was the thought of Sansa that had pushed him out of that icy water full of wights and a soon-to-be undead dragon, clawing up at the ice, pushing him harder and faster toward home. 

He had been so close to her then as he rode Uncle Benjen’s horse toward the Wall until his body gave out and he awoke to the sight of silver hair and violet eyes, his scarred body naked and vulnerable under the furs. 

And trapped. 

It was the thought of the ice in Sansa’s eyes and the fire in her hair that filled his every waking moment and haunted his dreams each night. It was _she_ who he had fought for, and had killed for. She had been the only one, all this time. And if she hated him for it, he would go to the Wall or beyond. He’d flee to the North and give up everything he had ever hoped for and dreamed of, for her.

It was all on the tip of his tongue. The words were almost an endless stream of fog in the frigid winter air. And then at the sound of Brienne’s voice, the words froze in his throat.

Suddenly they were walking side-by-side, away from the heart tree and away from the stolen moment. They walked the path of their footsteps in the snow toward the gate, Brienne following closely behind them. 

He knew he shouldn’t, but he could not tear his eyes away from Sansa. He wondered if she knew what he had been working up the courage to say, or if she had seen it in his eyes. Her breath had stopped as they stood so close under the tree, as he rubbed tiny circles into the crook of her arm with his thumb. He knew he probably shouldn’t have been touching her that way, but he could not help himself. Gods, he needed to touch her. To feel the warmth of her even through their layers. His hand burned at the memory of it. 

They reached the gate, leaving the godswood and his stolen confession behind. He looked upon Sansa and noticed a shift in her features as they passed the threshold between the quiet of that sacred place and the bustle of the castle grounds. With a deep breath, she had transformed in front of his eyes. From Sansa to Lady Stark in mere seconds. 

Brienne walked ahead to lead the way, just far enough to be out of earshot.

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. Desperation seized him and he fought the urge to take Sansa’s arm. She stood tall, shoulders back and chin raised, but the look in her eyes as they entered the Great Hall was one of repressed dread. Even with the cool mask of Lady Stark she had put on not even a moment earlier, he could see the flash of fear in her cool eyes. An involuntary instinct to guard her against pain, to comfort her, to shield her heart swept through him.

“I need one more moment with Lady Sansa,” Jon said to Brienne when they caught up with her and she gave him a small bow, seeming to understand the meaning behind his words. With her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, she walked toward the group gathered for the meeting. Jaime Lannister’s eyes followed hers and Jon recognized the look in them. Reverence and adoration, as if he cannot quite believe it is she that he loves. Jon knew the feeling intimately. 

Arya was there, watching both he and Sansa, as well as Bran. Curiosity filled Arya’s gaze and stoic omniscience remained on Bran’s. Jon couldn’t decide which unsettled him more. 

Both Davos and Podrick moved to speak with Brienne and Jaime. With nearly everyone’s attention diverted, Jon took the opportunity, hoping that Arya had not also learned to read lips during her years of training.

He touched Sansa lightly on the arm and turned her toward him. She looked down at his hand on her arm briefly before bringing her eyes back to his own. He wondered if he would ever learn how to breathe properly when looking into the clear blue of her eyes. He had been so close to confessing his true feelings before Brienne had interrupted him. He wanted to believe that the look in her eyes as he had paused, gathering the courage to confess his love for her, was one of hope. 

But it had also looked like fear. 

Maybe it had been a good thing that Brienne had interrupted them. Perhaps now was not the right time to tell her. She would finally be given the answers she had been patiently waiting for and the declaration of his love for her would only add to the burden she might carry upon hearing what Jon had to tell her of that horrendous day.

And now would be the absolute worst moment to tell her he has been in love with her for longer than he should ever admit to anyone. 

Deciding at last that his confession should be set aside at least for a while, if not forever, he said the only thing that came to mind. “Sansa, I--” he stammered. “I want to thank you for the clothes.” He pulled back his cloak and doublet, revealing the embroidered direwolf sigil on his chest. “And for the stew this morning. I know it was all you.”

“It was nothing.”

“No,” he breathed. “No. It wasn’t ‘nothing’, Sansa.” He tried to say more with his eyes, to make her see how much it had meant to him that she continued to care for him. That she had spent so much time on the needlework and that she anticipated his needs before even he could think of them. He needed her to see that he was grateful and that he knew he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve her. Or the way she had continued to name him Stark, even now, after everything that had come to pass. To her, he was still a Stark. And maybe, to her, he was still her brother. The thought of it sent a dull ache to wrap around his chest, squeezing it like a vice. 

Arya cleared her throat loudly. How long he had been standing there gazing up at her without a care of anyone else in the room, Jon had no idea. Heat bloomed in his cheeks as he glanced at Arya with a look of admonishment.

“And also, I apologize for calling the meeting before consulting you. I hadn’t realized when I awoke how much time had passed since we arrived home and it was just too much to tell you the night we arrived. As soon as I woke up I knew it could not wait any longer.” He took a beat and lowered his voice, moving a few inches closer to her, his back angled slightly away from their audience. “And please remember what I said before. I meant every word.” 

Sansa blinked rapidly and drew in a breath. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and nodded faintly instead. 

Jon nodded in return and swept his hand toward the table where everyone had gathered around, waiting for them. Tearing her eyes away from him, Sansa walked toward the table and removed her gloves before sitting down. Arya had selected a seat at the end of the table for Sansa and sat at the chair closest to her. 

Jon removed his gloves and chose the seat opposite Arya near the fire where Bran seemed always to be stationed when indoors. Davos chose the seat beside Jon, across from Brienne who sat in between Arya and Jaime. 

Podrick bowed toward no one in particular and took his leave to guard the entrance to the Great Hall. 

The moment they had all settled, every eye turned to Jon. Arya, Davos, and Jaime had all witnessed the events of King’s Landing, had all been a part of them, and yet he realized he’d likely not get too much help from them in unfolding the details of that disastrous day. 

And after all, it was he who had forbidden any of them to speak of it outside of this meeting. The lack of support he sought now was his own doing.

Jon’s throat was suddenly very dry. He longed for a flagon of ale to quench his thirst and calm his nerves, but the table was bare. He swallowed what little moisture was left in his mouth, drew in a breath from deep within his chest, looking around the table at each person. Lastly, he settled his gaze toward Sansa. She looked calm and prepared, though he knew she must be neither. 

“I called this meeting because you need to know exactly what happened in King’s Landing. On the journey home Arya, Davos, Jaime, and I decided it would be in everyone’s best interest if we all met together to speak of the events. And frankly, you will have the best insight as to how we should proceed under the circumstances we find ourselves in.” Sansa’s eyes narrowed, and her lips parted slightly. She glanced at Arya and then at Brienne before returning her attention to Jon. 

“Brienne is also unaware of the events, Lady Stark,” Jaime interjected. “I’ve kept my promise to not speak of it outside of this meeting, though she put up a good fight to get it out of me.” Jaime chuckled, but his laughter died quickly at the look of admonishment Brienne shot his way. 

After a moment of awkward silence and the sound of throats being cleared, Sansa nodded at Jaime and then returned her gaze to Jon. 

“Go on,” she urged.

“Right.” Jon cleared his throat. “Well, as you know, Daenerys is dead. Of that, you can be quite certain. But the truth of how her death came to be, like as not, must remain a secret for the time being. And as for the rest of it all, until a plan on how to move forward is made, I think everyone here should agree that the details should stay between only those present here today.” Jon looked at every individual in the room, confirming with each person their agreement.

Sansa delicately interlaced her fine-boned fingers together and placed her hands atop the table before her. Waiting.

Jon closed his eyes and breathed deep within his chest before returning his full attention to her, and only her. And then the words began to spill out at the memory of it all. 

He could see himself there, outside the city walls, waiting. Davos and Grey Worm were by his side with their men behind them. Tyrion had made sure they knew what the bells meant: surrender. And Jon sent a silent prayer to the old gods and the new, begging for it. 

With Drogon’s flames upon the Golden Company burning a path into the hell that would be unleashed, they marched on. Above them, Daenerys burned the scorpions along the walls that threatened to vanquish her only remaining child and Jon hoped she would miss at least one, though he knew she wouldn’t. He knew she’d decimate such a threat. What he hadn’t known, but should have, was that she would not stop there. 

Just as they reached an impasse with the Lannister troops, the reign of fire ceased, but only briefly. After what felt like a thousand tense moments, the Lannister soldiers dropped their swords in surrender and Jon took notice of his first real exhale since he left Winterfell.

From a distance, Jon faintly heard someone cry out, _“Ring the bells!”_ and then another, and another, until the only sounds were the heavy breathing of his men, of leather cracking, of steel hitting dirt. Of the voices of civilians demanding surrender.

A woman screamed, _“Help us!”_ and on and on the sporadic cries continued for several long and agonizing minutes.

He willed their pleas to be answered, barely breathing, anxiously waiting. Hoping.

Then finally the bells rang out. For one fleeting moment, Jon could almost taste the relief, but Drogon’s screech reminded him of who he had marched there with, who he knew he could not trust. 

And as if he summoned all seven hells himself with such thoughts, Daenerys made good on her promise of fire and blood. 

And he should have known it would come to this. All of those threats Daenerys made to burn this city to the ground echoed throughout the screams of her countless victims.

Grey Worm suddenly attacked the surrendered soldiers, throwing his spear into the chest of the man standing before them. Chaos broke, but silence crashed down upon Jon. He could not hear a single thing, save for the muffled sound of his racing heart. He could not even breathe. It felt as though he had been thrown suddenly and forcefully into water, sinking swiftly into darkness. The horror of what had come to pass enveloped him and all he could do was think of how everything he had planned for so many moons led him to this point. A point of no return. To this havoc and destruction. 

To his complicity.

A violent crash hit him from behind, jolting the silence from his ears and the thoughts from his mind. Piercing screams brought him back to where he was. Instinct flooded him. He did not even think twice about commanding retreat.

_“Noooooo! Get back! Get baaaack!!”_ Jon screamed. _“Stay!”_ he commanded his soldiers, _“STAY!”_

But there was no use. He had to fight. Grey Worm had turned to the sounds of Jon’s frantic commands, a look of darkened distrust and hatred upon his face. He could not back out now. He was forced to keep up the ruse. He had foolishly chosen to play this part and he knew he had to keep playing it until Grey Worm was out of sight so that he could try to regain control of his men and retreat. 

With Grey Worm and his soldiers’ departure, Davos began to join the Lannister soldiers in helping direct civilians out of danger. Jon fought when he had to but continued to scream his commands to stop, watching in horror and revulsion as his men slaughtered innocent bystanders. 

Blazing fire scorched stone and flesh. The smoke and the stench that followed it spread just as swiftly. 

And Jon could do nothing but scream for them to stop. Utterly helpless and in shock, he walked in a daze until he heard a woman screaming nearby. Following the sound, he spotted one of his men dragging the screaming woman toward a dark alley. Jon ran after them. When he found the man hovering over the poor, crying woman, Jon pulled him back and shoved him hard against the wall. The soldier lunged forward to attack, but Jon was faster, plunging Longclaw into the man’s gut. And when the Northman fell to the ground, bleeding out at his feet, he told the woman to find somewhere to hide.

Jon rushed out of the alley and screamed at all of his men to stop fighting and start helping. Most of them thankfully began to listen. 

An explosion of green fire grabbed everyone’s attention and Jon watched the sky light up once again, knowing this would be the death of them all if they stayed inside the city. Jon searched the crowd until he found Davos’ eyes already watching him, and a look of defeat passed between them as Drogon screeched loudly above the roar of the fire.

Jon sheathed Longclaw and shouted commands at any who could hear, _“We need to fall back! Fall back behind the wall!! Fall baaaack!! Get out of the city!! FALL BACK!!”_ He continued to scream through more explosions and dragon squeals, _“FAAAAAALL BAAAAAACK!!!!”_

Jon, Davos, and their men evacuated the city as it burned, bringing any civilians they could with them to the safety of their tents. One of the men amongst the crowd who joined their group, ducking and avoiding flames and falling stone, held a wailing infant in his arms. The screams of the child pierced Jon’s chest over and over again. He tried to block out the sounds, but there had been no ignoring the guilt that each cry built tall and heavy upon his shoulders. Jon nearly spoke to the father as a distraction when they had breached the city walls and they were no longer running for their lives. A question as to where the mother of the child was nearly escaped his lips, but then he thought better of it and only ushered the man and child into the safety of a tent. He knew the answer already, and asking it would not make himself or the man feel any better about it.

He could still hear the cries, sharp and loud and seared into his memory.

When the fire had finally burned out and turned into hovering clouds of ash that blocked out the sun, leaving a dreamlike haze of grey, they returned to the quiet city. The only sounds were their footsteps as they weaved a path between charred bodies and bones. The sight of huddled shapes, of hands covering heads and children’s silhouettes, of mothers clutching babes to their breast, all frozen in ash, brought bile to Jon’s throat. 

Tyrion departed, no doubt in search of his kin in the ruins of the Red Keep. 

With Davos by his side and a handful of Northmen, they came upon Grey Worm flanked by a few of Daenerys’s soldiers preparing to execute prisoners of war. The lawlessness of the dragon queen’s new reign overwhelmed Jon, despite his lack of shock in the manner. He could not help but openly disagree, to challenge such craven commands. But Davos spoke sense into Jon, which reminded him of his need to continue with the act. Though he was loathed to walk away from those men and stain his hands with their blood. 

But his hands were already drenched in the blood of countless innocents. He could not turn away from the blood he should have spilled long ago. 

Jon knew what he must do. 

He commanded Davos to prepare their army for yet another battle, knowing he’d need to keep Daenerys off of Drogon’s back if they were ever to have a chance at ending this relentless slaughter. Davos would wait for his command. And if this plan must fail, he’d likely die knowing he did so defending the North, protecting his family. 

Protecting the only woman he truly loved. 

With every step closer to the throne, his determination grew. And as he pushed through the very few remaining Dothraki and Unsullied, a sense of hope rose within him realizing his men outnumbered hers, that they had a chance to succeed. That his plan might actually work.

He ascended the steps as Daenerys descended from Drogon’s back and approached the crowd. The triumphant pride she displayed, both upon her face and in her ominous words, set Jon’s blood to boil. He did not need to speak the language she spoke to understand the intent behind her words. Hearing Winterfell and Dorne flow from her scornful lips was enough confirmation that her tyranny would not end here.

When Tyrion approached and Daenerys accused him of treason for releasing his brother, he did not deny it. Tyrion spoke the very words Jon struggled to hold back, that she had slaughtered a city, destroying the lives of innocents for a throne. And when he removed his Hand of the Queen pin and threw it into the ash and rubble, Jon knew Tyrion would suffer whatever consequence she deemed appropriate. Dragonfire, in all likelihood. 

The grave looks Jon received from them both as each of them walked toward the Red Keep filled him with determination and fear, both in equal measure. 

Davos appeared at Jon’s side, returning with the message that their men were prepared and waiting for another battle, given Jon’s command.

They made their way toward the throne room and fear that Jon tried so heavily to mask came over him as they approached the foreboding silhouette of Drogon. The ominous creature slowly raised his head, shaking off the ash his fire had created and lowered himself to face the two men. Jon tried desperately to keep his pulse slow and steady, convinced that Drogon might sense his fear and his intent. He slowly lifted his hand to the dragon’s snout and placed his palm upon the scales. When Drogon drew away from him and nuzzled himself back into a resting position, Jon thanked the gods for allowing the dragon to grant him and Davos entry into the castle.

Before approaching the throne room, Jon commanded Davos to stay back and wait for him outside, knowing that he needed to get Daenerys alone. He attempted to even his breath and steady himself before facing her, but his heart hammered wildly beneath his heavy chest, as though he approached not a woman, but a dragon. 

She was so quiet and small as she walked toward the throne, reaching her hand out so delicately to touch the iron. For a brief moment, he pitied her as he imagined what this moment must feel like for her. Believing this rather unimpressive chair was hers by right, she had stopped at nothing to claim it, although it was not even hers to begin with. In her journey to this moment, she had sacrificed everything she claimed to love in pursuit of it, and of all the power it held. 

He could almost hear her in his mind trying to convince him not to do what he came here to do, much like she did when she held his face between her hands commanding him to keep his identity a secret from the world, from even his own family.

But a vision of Winterfell, his true home, and of Bran and Arya and Sansa standing in front of its Great Keep swam before his mind’s eye. He could see in his vision the shadow of beating wings, and then the unmistakable labyrinth of white braids and haughty violet eyes, both beast and rider roaring fire upon all that Jon held most dear to his heart. 

And then he remembered the wisdom of Maester Aemon. _Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty._

Damned be his honor and his duty then. They are but _wind and words._

Jon stepped forward. 

Daenerys turned at the sound of his footsteps and glided toward him, smiling victoriously. He suppressed a shiver. She glanced over her shoulder at the throne and spoke of her disappointment in its size, or lack thereof. Her brother had described it to her as being much larger, much more foreboding and grand, with tens of thousands of sharp swords adorning it. Like most everything else, it hadn’t met her expectations. And yet that hadn’t seemed to wipe the elation from her upturned lips or diminish the shining cupidity in her eyes. 

She was happy, exhilarated and utterly unaware, or worse, completely remorseless of the havoc she had wreaked just hours ago. The thought of it sent a fresh wave of anger to roil through Jon’s chest. 

_“Have you seen what you have done? Children! Little children, burned!!”_ he cried out, trying to hold back the rage, and yet it still crept into his voice and made him shake.

She had the nerve to look taken aback at his outburst. 

_“This is war, Jon, you know this,”_ she said. _“I know you do not approve. But I love that about you. That is why I need you at my side as I break the wheel.”_

She wasn’t finished conquering. She would watch the world burn and call it justice. She would even call it mercy.

_“You have taken back what was taken from you, Dany. Is that not enough? Was this not what you wanted above all else, this throne? It is yours now. No one else needs to die.”_ Jon gave her one more chance to choose peace, though he did not know why. He knew she would not. 

She walked toward him with patronizing eyes and an innocent smile, as though she thought him a naive, young boy. 

_“Our enemies will never relent unless we destroy them.”_

_“And what of my family?”_ he asked. _“What of Sansa?”_

_“If she chooses to bend the knee she will no longer be our enemy.”_

He would not let Sansa be forced to bend the knee or die, not after everything she had been through, but Jon needed Daenerys to get closer. He needed to make her believe he would stay by her side. He needed her to trust him again.

_“She will. Sansa will bend the knee,”_ Jon lied, pleading, as he stepped closer to her. _“If I am by your side, she will submit. You are my queen.”_

She stepped closer to him, pressing her body into his. And as he held her in his arms and leaned in for the last kiss he would ever be forced to give her, footsteps urgently shuffled in. 

Grey Worm staggered in quickly, pulling Jaime Lannister in chains by his side. Panic and confusion flooded Jon. His chance was gone. His plan was failing. Dread consumed him rapidly as his mind raced to come up with a new plan, thinking perhaps Jaime and Davos could help him take them on. He thought of how many Unsullied guarded the doors. He wondered if Davos was close enough to see what was happening, or if Jaime’s chains could easily be removed, or if maybe he could fight with them bound. It was possible but far too dangerous. Jon could not understand why Jaime was even there at all and why he would allow himself to be captured yet again. And most of all by Grey Worm.

Daenerys unclasped herself from their brief embrace and turned away from Jon, breaking him from his panicked thoughts. 

_“Ah, the Kingslayer,”_ she cooed. _“I was told that your brother had released you. You came here to save your sister, did you not?”_

Jaime did not answer. He raised his eyes, not to Daenerys, but behind her and looked intently at Jon with hooded eyes. Jon tried desperately to convey some sort of message to him, to make him understand Jon’s intentions, but Grey Worm was beside Jaime, clutching him tighter and glaring back at Jon. Then suddenly he pushed Jaime forward. 

_“Answer your Queen,”_ Grey Worm shouted.

_“Yes,”_ Jaime croaked hoarsely, _“I came to save my sister.”_

_“It is a shame, for you, that you failed.”_ Daenerys nearly laughed as she spoke in a mocking tone. 

Jaime looked down at the trail of footprints before him that revealed the intricate patterns of the marble floor otherwise covered in ash. How odd it must have been for Jaime to find himself in such a familiar place that now looked so different. He had killed the Mad King and bore the name of Kingslayer all these years. Jon realized that he would bear a similar title soon enough: Queenslayer, and Kinslayer as well. At that moment, Jon understood Jaime in more ways than he had previously believed he had. He wondered if Jaime would do it all again. Given the chance, he imagined Jaime might also have ended Daenerys before she could become what she is now. 

_“Bend the knee, Kingslayer, and I shall consider not burning you for the crimes you have committed against my family and The Realm.”_

Jaime neither moved nor spoke, but only stared intently at Jon.

_“Why do you only look to Jon Snow when I have commanded you to kneel?”_

Jaime smirked. _“He is the true heir to the Iron Throne and if I were to kneel to anyone, it would be to him, not you.”_

_“I see your traitor brother has informed you of Jon Snow’s true identity.”_ Daenerys glanced over her shoulder at Jon before returning her attention to Jaime. And with each sentence, her steps grew closer to the prisoner in Grey Worm’s tight grasp. _“It is no matter. Jon has bent the knee to me. He has given up his crown and given up the throne to me, his Queen. Your Queen.”_

_“You are not my queen,”_ Jaime snarled.

_“Very well. I shall enjoy watching the man who murdered my father burn.”_

_“My Queen,”_ Jon said urgently, _“please don’t. Don’t do this.”_

Daenerys spun around to look at Jon, eyes blazing and teeth bared at him. 

_“Do not presume, Jon Snow, to command_ ME. _And do not think I will show mercy to anyone who refuses to bend the knee to me. I am Queen. The throne is mine and no one will take it away from me ever again.” _

Her voice shook with fury and her gaze was so hot Jon nearly missed what was happening behind her. Grey Worm had soundlessly released Jaime and pulled his unclasped hands apart, smiling expectantly. It had happened so fast that Jon could barely react. He could not even move, nor believe his eyes. 

As Daenerys’ shouts to Jon grew louder, Grey Worm tugged at his neck and pulled at the skin as if removing a knight’s helmet to reveal the face of his sister, Arya.

Jon’s heart ceased its beating and he stumbled back, nearly falling over his own feet. His stomach rolled. He could not understand. He could not believe what had happened. It wasn’t until Arya lunged out at Daenerys from behind and grabbed her by the waist with one hand, baring a shining blade at her neck that Jon understood what was happening. 

_“Scream, and I will cut your throat,”_ Arya growled in Daenerys’ ear, _“I won’t hesitate.”_

The two women stared at Jon. Arya’s eyes were full of focused determination. Daenerys’ were full of confusion and then of rage. 

_“Jon?”_ Arya was asking for permission, giving him the choice.

He slowly stepped toward them with his hands up in apprehension. Jaime had dropped his shackles and drawn a sword as he moved to the other side of Arya. He watched the scene play out before him as well as keeping an eye at the doors, prepared for a fight. 

Daenerys snarled and curled her trembling lips. Her nostrils flared. 

_“Command your cousin to unhand me or I will make you watch while I burn every last Stark as traitors.”_

_“Dany, you have given me no choice. I will not stand by and watch as you burn the world. I won’t allow it. And I would never let you harm my family.”_ Jon could not keep his voice from breaking. _“I will always protect them.” _

Hot tears slid down his cheeks. He had not wanted it all to come to this. He had not wanted to find himself there, making another impossible choice, and yet there he was. The choice was simple and yet punishing. It was as heavy as it was weightless.

_We all do our duty, when there is no cost to it. How easy it seems then, to walk the path of honor. Yet soon or late in every man’s life comes a day when it is not easy, a day when he must choose._ Aemon’s words rang loud and true, reverberating from a hidden part of Jon’s mind.

Daenerys lifted her chin. _“You are no dragon,”_ she seethed through clenched teeth.

_“No, I am not,”_ Jon growled. _“I am a wolf.”_

He shifted his eyes to Arya and with one small nod he gave her his consent to finish what he started. 

_“DRA-”_ Daenerys’ scream was cut short, replaced by a gurgling gasp. Arya had slit her throat so swift and deep Jon had barely seen it happen.

Daenerys clutched and clawed desperately at her throat as Arya held her tightly. Blood seeped between her fingers until her arms slowly dropped to her sides, leaving a strange pattern of red droplets on the ashen floor. Jon watched as her body slumped slowly and her head tipped back against Arya’s chest, violet eyes fixed on his own. Arya lowered her to the ground and stepped away from the seeping blood that began to pool underneath Daenerys’ neck as she shuddered her last breath.

Drogon screeched outside.

_“Jon,”_ Arya said urgently, _“we need to go. Now.”_

He tore his eyes away from the body at their feet and blinked at Arya. 

_“We need to fight them,”_ he said. _“We can’t just run away.”_

_“I know.”_

_“Davos is waiting outside with our men, ready to fight.”_

_“Let’s go then before that bloody dragon sees what we’ve done and burns us, too.”_ Jon almost forgot Jaime was there until he spoke.

The three of them fled the throne room. Davos had been waiting for him down the corridor. Jon gave him his command and Davos ran ahead of them. Thankfully there had not been many Unsullied soldiers inside, but they took down each one they encountered, and as they finished off the last guard near the entrance to the Red Keep, the unmistakable din of battle cries reached Jon’s ears. 

The three of them entered the fray and fought closely together. Most of the remaining Dothraki were wiped out already, as those few who survived the decimation by the dead were the first to be ambushed by hordes of Northmen. 

Above the cacophony of the sudden battle, Drogon screeched in unequivocal grief. Jon raised his eyes toward the building he had left just moments ago. The dragon’s massive tail hung from a ledge. Jon knew he had found his mother. From the ruins of the Red Keep, he could see fresh dragonfire creep along the edges of the throne room, consuming the already crumbling walls.

He kept fighting. He hadn’t the time to worry about dragonfire just yet, with the bodies quickly piling up around him. It had been harder than Jon had hoped. Daenerys’ soldiers were fearless, and because of that, the Northmen seemed to be losing despite the lack of their opponents’ numbers. The few of them that were left fought harder and smarter than Jon’s men.

Drogon’s screeches increased in number and pitch. The Unsullied soldier Jon had been fighting looked up at the sound and the distraction gave Jon the upper hand. He thrust Longclaw deep into the soldier’s ribcage and once the man fell to the ground, Jon shouted to Arya, Jaime, and Davos a command to follow him from beyond the edge of the bloodshed. 

_“Fall back! Faaaall BAAAACK!”_ Jon shouted at his men. Those that heard him followed suit.

The beating of Drogon’s wings sent gusts of wind to blow cold ash upon the battle. He flew low enough that Jon could just barely see through the disrupted, swirling ash around them that the dragon held his mother’s lifeless body between his claws. And just as Jon had feared, the dragon breathed a stream of fire onto the fighting men.

He rose higher and higher, flapping his wings faster as he flew beyond the city walls and toward the Narrow Sea. 

Drogon screeched one last time in the distance, a piercing, guttural scream full of agony and pain. The threat of more dragonfire was gone. But as swift as the relief of it came, it had just as rapidly been replaced by the dread of losing the battle that still raged on despite the fresh fire that burned between them. They dove right back into it, swords clashing and voices shouting.

Jon had thought then that it was a fight that should have been easier to win. They had survived the army of the dead, had they not? He grew exhausted and utterly breathless. Tired of the fight, tired of the fire and the blood and the smoke and ash. Tired of the killing. And feeling the sharp threat of loss gaining on him, he tried to fight the urge to give in to his despair with what little strength remained to him.

A vestige of strength given to him by the thought of eyes the color of winter roses and hair kissed by fire. A sight he might not get another chance to behold.

But just as his confidence began to wane, a fresh wave of Northmen descended upon the fray. It gave Jon the energy he needed to keep fighting and with it the hope of seeing Sansa once again.

The Northmen quickly gained the upper hand on the remaining Unsullied. And when it was finally over, Jon looked around at the scene before him. Breath heavy and heart pounding, he scanned the bloody, ashy heap of lifeless bodies and wounded men.

Jaime and Arya were nearby, panting and injured, but alive. Davos had survived as well. Blood oozed from his leg as he limped toward them. 

Jon sank his knees to the ground and lowered his hands to the bloodied ash. He took handfuls of it and watched as it stained his palms. All at once his composure broke. He beat his fists upon the stone beneath him and roared until he felt a small hand upon his back. Arya squatted next to him and brought his face into her hands.

_“Let’s go home,”_ she said.

_“What about-”_ Jon sputtered through phlegm and angry tears.

_“Never mind any of it,”_ she said. _“We’re going home. We’ll figure it all out when we get there.”_

Jaime stepped closer to them. _“I’m coming back with you.”_

_“What about your brother?”_ Arya asked.

_“I’ll release him, but he needs to stay here and clean up this mess he helped create. And then after we’ve decided what to do, we can deal with it all then.”_

_“Sansa will know what to do,”_ Jon said, sniffling.

Arya nodded. _“Yeah, she will.”_

_“I just hope she still likes her first husband,”_ Jaime said jokingly, but his smile quickly faded at the contemptuous look Jon gave him.

After they released Tyrion from his cell on the condition that he would act only upon their instructions, they said their goodbyes, packed up and set off on their journey back to Winterfell. 

On their way home Jon unloaded the burden of the secrets of his betrayal to Daenerys. Among the three of them, Jaime seemed the most surprised by Jon’s deception. 

_“You were lying the whole time? To everyone?”_ Jaime had asked again and again, seemingly just as shocked as he had been upon his first discovery of it until Arya finally yelled at him to shut up about it. 

All Davos and Arya could say regarding the matter were that it had answered many of their questions. Jon admitted that he had made the mistake of not informing Sansa of the truth when he had the chance and that he wanted to be the one to tell her. He said that he needed to make it right. Or as right as he could manage to make it. 

It was about halfway through their journey that Jaime had revealed some secrets of his own. Secrets that changed everything.

After much arguing and discussion, they all agreed that it would be best to wait until Jon could speak with Sansa alone before they held a meeting to explain the situation they were now in. Out of the lot of them, Sansa had the sharpest mind, the continued support of their bannermen, and the wisdom to formulate the best plans. They all agreed when Jon suggested that she be the one to decide how to move forward.

When Jon had finished speaking, Sansa’s eyes were brimming and a crease had formed between her brows. Jon reached across the table and took hold of her hand. He held it tightly in his, hoping that the warmth of his touch and the steadiness of his hand would give her courage. Just as the same gesture had done for him so many moons ago when she urged him to fight for Winterfell, to fight for her.

_“Sansa, Daenerys is dead,”_ he said, pausing to take a breath to calm his nerves, but to no avail. He glanced at Jaime whose chest heaved and eyes nervously flitted between Sansa and Brienne. Jon clenched his jaw, imagining all of the times on the way home he almost broke Jaime’s perfect nose in his fury at the mess he had created for them, and Jon tried to resist the urge to reach across the table to spill blood. He glared at Jaime once again. 

At least he had the decency to look guilty and resist making any more japes.

After a tense moment, Jon returned his eyes to Sansa and drew in a deep breath. _“But Cersei is not.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a huge cliff hanger, I'm sorry! I've already started writing the next chapter and I hope that I'll be able to finish it and update much quicker than it took me to update this chapter so that I don't leave you all hanging! Again, I apologize for the delay in updating, but I hope that you enjoy this wild chapter.
> 
> p.s. the dialogue spoken in Jon's memory by Maester Aemon was directly taken from Jon VIII in A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> Let me know what you think! And don't forget you can come hang out with me on [Tumblr!](https://a-time-for-wolvess.tumblr.com)


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